


Memories

by PeachTart



Series: Chronicles from the ABO Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, BDSM, M/M, Omega Verse, pseudo bestiality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachTart/pseuds/PeachTart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is proud to be a Beta in a society that discriminates against Betas. Alphas are worshipped for their strength, aggression and intellect (a pure myth in Sherlock’s opinion) and Omegas for their fertility. Betas? The kindest term to describe them is Worker Bee, a sly reference to their place in society. But in Sherlock’s not-so-humble opinion, the Beta is clearly the superior gender in terms of human evolution. A Beta is calm, hardworking and logical compared to the Alpha who is ruled by the lower part of their body or the simpering fragile Omega dependent on the protection of their mates. Sherlock is not afraid to flaunt his intellectual superiority to everyone around him, including his very Alpha brother Mycroft whom Sherlock firmly believes is NOT the cleverer Holmes brother. Sherlock wants to live out his life as an asexual, calm and logical consulting detective. That is until he meets Alpha John Watson. The past collides with the present. Dark memories which Sherlock have purged and deleted resurfaced, threatening to destroy Sherlock and the people around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Strictly speaking, this fic is an AU of BBC Sherlock as there are a couple of references unique in the fic which can only be found at the show. I love BBC Sherlock, my favorite detective duo in modern days. But in terms of inspirations for this fic, I have to admit it comes from the variety of Sherlock fanfiction I read online. My favorite Sherlock ABO fics are The Gilded Cage by BeautifulFiction and The Six Steps of Courtship by emptycel. They are hosted at the Archive of Our Own and you have the time, do read them. 
> 
> This story is based in the Omegaverse. If you are not sure what omgeaberse is, I suggest you google for an explanation.
> 
> I have the rough outline of the story but I need to work out the details. At this point of time, I have no idea whether this fic would have a happily ever after ending or a tragic ending so if you don’t like stories with tragic endings, do keep in mind that this story may just end up as a tragedy. 
> 
> The first chapter is slightly long winded and boring as I wanted to give the readers a sense of the major events that led to the current state of affairs in the ABO Universe. I hoped I did not frighten off any potential readers. 
> 
> Please note the warnings for this fic. And…..gasp…..horror……this story has not been proofed read.  
> Comments and suggestions are welcomed. You could leave a message at the comments section of this fic or email me at cherryblossomtart@gmail.com
> 
> I have my own website at http://peach-tart.com/ where I sometimes share my thoughts when writing. 
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my own website at http://peach-tart.com/ where I sometimes share my thoughts when writing.

_There are those defining moments that either make you who you are, or show you who you are._

 

Unknown quote

 

\-----------------

 

Mycroft Homes never forgot the defining moment that contributed to making him the man he is today. It was the day he watched his elder brother, Sherrinford Holmes, leaving the Holmes ancestral manor, disowned and banished in disgrace abroad by their Father, never allowed to set foot in England again.

 

Politicians come and go in the western world. The real power in any western country was not elected political party the voters had chosen. In the United Kingdom, the real masters of the country were collectively known as the Elites. The true identities of the Elites were never known to the general public. The unassuming civil servant occupying some obscure minor position in the British government which no one would give a second glance, could actually be the actual master behind the elected Minister they allegedly served. Almost all the Elites were from the Noble Families, regarded as a quaint and antiquated curiosity from the past where Kings and Queen actually had true power to rule the country centuries ago. As for the titles held by the various members of the Noble Families? Something to impress the foreigners, especially the Americans.

 

Mycroft preferred to be known as Mr Holmes rather than Lord Holmes although he had inherited the title upon his Father’s death. At the tender age of 22, he had taken on his Father’s position, protecting the traditional Holmes power base as the sharks surrounded him, eager to take a nip at the pie, seeing an opportunity to expand their power base. It took him 5 years before he took control of the Omega Protection Association and became the true puppet master behind the elected Chairman of the Omega Protection Association. It took him another 5 years and the annihilation of three Noble Family Heads (one plane crash, one of ‘natural causes’ and one suicide) to emerge victorious and became THE British government.

 

His Mother was the second Lady Holmes. The first Lady Holmes had died of heart attack at the tender age of thirty, a tragic early end of an Omega with a family history of heart ailments, leaving behind a 10 year old son, Sherrinford Holmes. This match with Father is an alliance between two Noble families. It was not a love match but a match based on power and genetic compatibility. From all accounts, she seemed to be a gentle and fragile Omega, contented in her role as a homemaker.

 

There have been whispers that the lady died of a broken heart. Sherrinford Holmes was an Alpha but the blood test revealed that he has only 69% in the Alpha Purity Index. It was illegal to discriminate based on gender and upon widespread protests in the streets, the law had deemed that prospective employers cannot demand the potential Alpha job candidates to reveal their Alpha Purity Index score. It was a widely spread belief, backed up with Alpha Supremacy Group’s ‘scientific findings’ that the higher an Alpha Purity Index score, the more intelligent and powerful the Alpha. The Alphas in the Noble Families typically ranged between 70% and 85%. Mycroft’s Alpha Purity Index score was a staggering 91%, which was a source of pride for his Father. Mycroft had to admit that his high Alpha Purity Index score had helped in impressing his potential allies and intimidated his enemies, especially in the early days where he struggled to protect and expand the Holmes power base.

 

Mycroft Holmes was not a scientist but he had studied enough to conclude that the Alpha Purity Index Score was not a measurement of intelligence or strength. Several Alpha Supremacy groups, secretly backed by several Noble Families, had lobbied for special concessions into letting the Alphas with a High Purity Index score to have priority and first rights in getting an Omega mate. Mycroft had ensured that Omega Protection Association would not bow to the pressure from the Alpha Supremacy groups in matching the Omegas in the Omega Register with the Alpha applicants. In the end, the consent of the Omega would be the deciding factor in any Alpha/Omega match and not any based on genetic compatibility or Alpha Purity Index score. The Noble Families had a vested interest in perpetuating the myth of superiority in high Alpha Purity Index score. While they would not opening espoused the superiority of high Alpha Purity Index score, many had funded the Alpha Supremacy groups. The Noble Families had breeded almost exclusively with Alphas and Omegas over generations. As a result, the average score of the Alpha Purity Index score would be much higher than the general population. And the final piece of evidence for Mycroft in the fallacy of the superiority in high Alpha Purity Index score? His elder brother, Sherrinford Holmes. Mycroft had rubbed it in to Sherlock that he was ‘the smart one’ of the Holmes brothers but he was truthful enough to admit that his elder brother, Sherrinford Holmes, was as intelligent, if not more intelligent than Mycroft although he scored only 69% in the Alpha Purity Index (which was still 15% higher than the general Alpha population).

 

Ever since Mycroft became THE British government, he had taken the threat of the Alpha Supremacy groups seriously. While some had seen their rants of superiority as harmless, Mycroft knew that if not kept in check, the extremist elements in the Alpha Supremacy groups could reared its ugly head as seen in the Omega Persecution War in 1939. It started with the gradual erosion of Omega rights in Germany such as mandatory bonding for Omegas three months within their first heat. More and more stringent rules were then introduced such as forbidding relations and marriages between Omegas and Betas. By December 1939, the facade of an egalitarian civilized world was torn off. Germany rounded up the entire Omega population and placed them in breeding camps where Omegas were forced to mate and breed repeatedly with different Alphas. Omegas who managed to escape from the breeding camps had painted a picture of hell on earth where the Omegas were injected with experimental serum so that the Omegas would be in heat continuously. Omegas were forced to mate with up to ten Alphas every day until he or she was impregnated. The madness in Germany started to spread across the world rapidly where Omegas were seen as resources and not humans. Smaller nations like Japan in the Far East even invaded China and started to massacre entire cities of alphas and betas while rounding up the Omegas to be placed in the breeding camps in the occupied territories. It took the combine power of Britain and their Allied countries six years to end the Omega Persecution War in 1945.

 

Many had seen Mycroft’s move in controlling the Omega Protection Association as a means to consolidate and strengthen his power base as control over the Omega population meant that he had at hand to ‘reward’ his allies with unlimited access to Omegas, an irresistible and almost impossible reward to reject. The truth is that at the bottom of his heart, he has a true desire to protect the Omega population where Omegas were seen as baby making machines and property of their Alphas. Despite the fact that there were laws which gave Omega rights to choose their own mates, there were ways to ‘persuade’ an unwilling Omega to bond with an Alpha not of their own choice. The simplest way was to lock the Omega in the throes of heat with an Alpha. Omegas, especially within the first two years after their first presentation, had little self-control over their biological instincts during their 3 monthly heats. It was tempting for a family with an Omega to choose an Alpha who could offer the highest dowry to bond with the Omega. An unbounded Omega could change the fortunes of an impoverished family. Mycroft was not omnipotent but he had ensured that Omega Protection Association would watch over the welfare of the Omega population and kept the worst abuses in check.

 

Mycroft was ruthless in his quick ascension of power, his hands stained with blood. While he had never killed anyone with his own hands, he had given orders which led to the death of several people, several inconvenient who stood in his path for power. Mycroft had never regretted and had not lose any sleep over his actions which directly or indirectly led to the death of people, several of them innocent collaterals who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had to be ruthless. For the Noble Families, a loss of power could potentially mean the death of all the Alphas in the family (either through assassinations or unfortunate accidents) and the distribution of all the Omegas in the losing families to the victors as breeders through forced bonding.

 

His Mother, the second Lady Holmes, was one of the war trophies after a particular vicious power struggle which her family lost for supporting the wrong side. His Father found himself given a 14 year old Omega as his bride. A frightened child, who had been pampered all her life, married to a man old enough to be her father. Lord Siger Holmes was a power-hungry man. His thirst for power could be stemmed back to 700 years ago where the Holmes family suffered a defeat with the betrayal of a trusted ally. The Holmes line was almost annihilated with the Alphas killed and the Omegas given to the rival families as breeders. The Betas in the Holmes family were stripped of lands, properties and money and were left as destitute. The Betas in the Holmes family had proved their worth and through careful plotting over hundreds of years, revived the fortunes of the Holmes family. The Holmes Family was the only Noble Family to treat the Betas as equals, having equal rights in inheritance as it has proven that Betas with their calm and logical minds plotting the revival of the Holmes line, were as good as the Alphas. The painful history of the fall and the subsequent revival of the Holmes family was a constant reminder to every successive Head of the Holmes Family that the power and wealth accumulated by several generations of Holmes could be lost in the blink of an eye. The Holmes Family was fortunate. Several Noble Families who suffered defeats never recovered, their name forever lost, their proud history forgotten, fortunes given to their enemies and their Omegas distributed among the victors.

 

Lord Siger Holmes was appalled that he was given a 14 year old child as his second wife. Most of the Omegas would only be presented and go into their first heat when they turned 18. Violet Colangelo has come into her first heat when she turned 13. In olden days, the Colengelo family would have easily gained a kingdom just by offering her hand in marriage as it was believed that the earlier an Omega comes into his or her heat, the more fertile the Omega would be. To Lord Siger Holmes’s disgust, the myth linking the first heat of the Omega to the age has persisted to this day. Even modern laws allow the bonding of underage Omegas as long as Omegas had their first heat. Even though most countries, including United Kingdom, had proclaimed egalitarian rights for all irrespective of gender, modern laws still stuck to the archaic thinking of ‘old enough to go into heat, old enough to breed’ even when the Omega in question was still a child.

 

It was with great reluctance that Lord Siger Holmes had taken his child bride to the marriage bed as a rejection of a bonding with his child bride would be perceived as a weakness for his enemies. Mycroft Holmes was born one year later after the marriage. As far as possible within the norms of the society, Siger Holmes had shown kindness to his child bride, who was only 4 years older than his eldest son. He had indulged her whims for clothes, jewellery and any material things she desired. He had even allowed the Betas of her remaining family to retain their properties and businesses although it was within his rights to take all. It might take decades or even centuries, but the Colengelo family had every opportunity to revive their position as one of the Noble Families. After all the Holmes family did recover their seat of power and they were in an even dire position when they first lost power centuries ago, leaving the family destitute and scattered throughout Europe.

 

Father and Mother had a tacit agreement. Father would allow Mother every entitlement accorded to Lady Holmes and even freedom to travel overseas alone if she desired (under heavy protection, of course), a freedom not normally given to an Omega from the Noble Families. In return, Mother would perform the public role expected that of Lady Holmes, by the side of the Lord Holmes in public events and private parties. There was no love between the couple. Each had their own lovers although Mother has promised, upon the death of the remaining Colangelo family that no love child would be born out of wedlock.

 

His Mother was still a young child when Mycroft was born. She had no maternal instincts and did not want to deal with a crying baby, leaving Mycroft to a succession of well trained nannies to take care of Mycroft. He never had the traditional bond between an Omega Mother and child. While his Mother was casually affectionate, petting his head when he is in front of her, she had not taken any additional interests in him as long as he was quiet and kept out of the way. There was little interaction between the mother and child. When they were forced to spend time together, there was complete and total awkward silence, save for the few meagre attempts on his Mother’s part and meagre ones to keep it going on his part until Mother finally dismissed him with a kiss. As he was older, he perfected the mask of blank attentiveness as his Mother started to use him as a sounding board and talked of parties and the latest society scandals. This was where he started his political training and perfected the mask of attentiveness. He was thankful of the skill his Mother taught him as he dealt with tedious politicians puffed with their self-perceived importance, enabling him to put up a pleasantly attentive and slightly flattering mask for the speaker while his mind plotted their downfalls.

 

While Mycroft found the company of his Mother tedious, he adored the time he spent with his Father. His Father would spend time alone with him, teaching him the Holmes Family history and politics, teachings that he found intellectually engaging and exciting. It was through his Father’s teachings that he developed an interest and the thirst to be an Elite, to be one of the puppet masters of the country.

 

If Mycroft adored his Father, he idolized his elder brother, Sherrinford. He could never quite understand why Father was so cold and formal with his elder brother and he was upset with the malicious whispers that Father would cast aside Sherrinford as the heir as his Alpha Purity Index Score was low for a member of the Noble Family. Despite the lack of warm relations between Father and the elder son, Mycroft got along well with his elder brother. Sherrinford ensured that he kept an eye on his younger brother’s studies and upon his first day in school, had sent out warnings that there would be dire consequences if Mycroft was bullied. In short, he was the perfect elder brother. Mycroft on the other hand, was the perfect younger brother, listening (but not following) to the advice given by an older brother in all areas of life including the right type of friends to make, the correct type of clothes to wear and even the amount of food one should eat per day to maintain a perfect physical figure (which Mycroft never listened to this day even though it was perfectly apt advice).

 

Sherrinford was a very charming man, always surrounded a group of fawning admirers. Appearance wise, he was very different from Mycroft, who as a child, was plump with dark hair. Sherrinford, on the other hand, is the image of a young Apollo with his golden hair and with cheekbones to die for. He was a popular man, winning friends easily and parents who despaired of their own children, whose sole goals in life were to drink to an early and to engage in a promiscuous lifestyle, was held up as a paragon of virtue who should be emulated. However, it was a known fact that Father was not bowled over by Sherrinford’s easy charms. The relationship between Father and his eldest son, the future Head of the Holmes family was distance and cold. Some had speculated that Father was sorely disappointed and humiliated over the 69% Alpha Purity Index score. But even so, most cannot comprehend Father’s distance with his heir and obvious favouritism with his younger son. Sherrinford, despite his Alpha Purity Index, had one of the keenest and sharpest mind, on par if not surpassing Mycroft’s own astonishing intellect prowess. Father had taken a personal interest in Mycroft’s upbringing and has bought him to be present during political discussions, a place traditionally reserved for the heir apparent and not the younger son. Political enemies have slyly tried to create resentment between the two brothers but the relationship between the two remained close as two brothers could be.

 

Sherrinford was seemingly unaware of the whisperings behind his back that Father would be casting him aside as the heir apparent. And from all appearances, it seemed that he would not be overly upset if he was to be cast aside as the heir apparent. Instead, he seemed to have devoted his entire energy in the pursuit of science and is on the way to become one of the top scientists in Omega Biology. To anyone who asked, Sherrinford had shared that he is saddened by his Mother’s early tragic death and wanted to dedicate his life in ensuring that the Omega population would not decimated further.

 

The Omega population has never recovered from the Black Death which decimated the Omega population in the 14th century. One of the reasons for the 1939 Omega Persecution War was over the handling of the Omega population. In the last 150 years, several disturbing trends had emerged. The first ominous sign the declining number of Omega children born. Although the Beta was capable of bearing children, the number of children borne by the Beta couple had dwindled and most Beta couple would be lucky to have one child. And out of the children born out of Beta-Beta couple, the number of Omega children borne dropped from 1 every 10 children to 1 every 1000 children. The next ominous sign was the decline in the female Omega population. For every three female Omega born, only one would survive to adulthood. Many female Omegas have died at childbirth, killing the child they carry as well as their own. The natural lifespan of female Omega had reduced from 67 years to 55 year. This was in stark contrast to the other genders whose lifespan had increased due to leaps in science, medical care and better living conditions. The first published data on the decline of the Omega population had caused an uproar worldwide and doomsday predictions of the beginning of an end for the human race. The male Omega population was so far unaffected by the gradual decline of the female Omega population. However, as scientists were at a loss to understand the reason for the decline of the female Omega population and there were concerns that the male Omega population would suffer a same fate.

 

The official data on the decline of the Omega population was officially released by the Omega Protection Association in 1898 which led to the finding of several Alpha Supremacy groups. The more extreme and militant groups advocated that the Omega population should be controlled and to breed with as many Alphas as possible to ensure the survival of the human species. Omegas, especially male Omegas, had been targeted by the extremist Alpha Supremacy groups and forced into breeding programs. The majority of the population, however, was outraged by the blatant disregard for the rights of the Omega population. The ending of the Omega Persecution War in 1945 led to the disbandment of several militant Alpha Supremacy groups. However, up to this day, Alpha Supremacy extremism was never fully eradicated although their activities had went underground.

 

After the Omega Persecution War, great leaps had been made in science which contributed significantly to the Egalitarian Omega Movement which was dedicated to guaranteeing civil, political, economic and social rights for the Omega population. In 1952, Cornelia White, a nineteen year old unbonded Omega, committed suicide after being gang raped by a group of Alphas. Cornelia White had an unexpected heat on her way home after trying out her wedding dress at the Bridal Shop. She was alone without any Alpha family member as her escort met an accident while on the way to fetch her home. She decided to walk home alone, a 15 minute walk from home when she had an unexpected heat. She was dragged off the streets and gang raped by 5 alphas before taken into one of the Alpha’s place where she was continually raped throughout her 3 day heat. Despite the fact that it was caught on camera at the street where she had her unexpected heat that upon the realisation of her impending heat, had said no and begged for mercy and that throughout the brutal mating, she kept screaming and begging the rapists to stop. The judge ruled that it was clear from the evidence that her body was clearly receptive of the Alpha’s touch, she had given consent even though she begged for mercy. The Alphas were acquitted and walked off scot free from the court. Unable to live with the shame, Cornelia White committed suicide leaving behind her heartbroken fiancée, a childhood sweetheart whom she was to marry in one month’s time and her grieving father.

 

The non-guilty verdict and the tragic suicide of Cornelia White led to a series of street protests in London and started the Omega Liberation Movement which spread to the rest of the world in three months. The Chairman of the UK Omega Protection Association resigned and as the Omega Protection Association had stopped all matchmaking services for Alphas as a sign of protest. After 3 long years, the Cornelia White Act was passed which made it a crime for Alphas to mate with Omegas during involuntary heats. This was a landmark victory for the Omega Liberation Movement as the rest of the world soon follow suit with similar laws to protect Omegas against involuntary heats.

 

Heat suppressants for Omegas and the Beta serum have been hailed as major discoveries which had given Omegas their freedom from being ruled by their biology and rights to reproduction. The Alphas had their condoms to prevent any unwanted children but the Omegas have nothing to protect against impregnation on their own in the throes of heats. Even in today’s civilized society, there were some who would take advantage of Omegas during their heats as their biology dictated them with an uncontrollable overwhelmingly urge to be mated and knotted. While an Omega has on average has a heat once every 3 months, it was not an exact science and Omegas could have an unwanted heat at any point of time. This had curtailed the personal freedom of Omegas as none would have walked the streets alone without an Alpha family member and job opportunities were limited requiring them to work in an all Omega or Beta environment. Mating and knotting with an unbonded Omegas by the Alphas during their heats was not considered a crime even if the Alphas concern are strangers and no implicit consent has been given. As long as the Omega was unbonded, it was considered fair game for any Alpha who was simply obeying their biological instincts to mate triggered by the pheromones released by the Omega during his or her heat.

 

The discovery of the Omega heat suppressant known as O-Heat was named as one of the most important discovery in the history of Omega. When taken, an Omega’s heat cycles would be stopped for up to three years. When taken continuously, an Omega could hold off their heat cycles indefinitely. In the past, Omegas who wished to suppress their heat cycles would have to turn to the black market for illegal heat suppressants which were untested and when taken over a long period of time, would inevitably kill the Omega. O-Heat had been tested rigorously in laboratory conditions and had proven to be safe to Omegas. Professor Andrew White, the inventor of O-Heat was awarded the Nobel Prize (Omega Chemistry) for the landmark discovery. In his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize, Professor Andrew White dedicated the award to his daughter, Cornelia White, a poignant reminder and tribute to generations of Omega sufferings, stripped of their basic human rights as a result of their biology.

 

The 20th century would be remembered as the century which would see the Omega population casting aside their shackles, prisoners of their own biology. The discovery of O-Heat was soon followed by the discovery of the controversial product known as the Beta Serum which would suppress the natural pheromones of the Omega. This meant that an Omega could boldly walks among the crowd with no one any wiser of his or her true gender. The Beta Serum was expensive and effects only lasted for 3 years before the Omega needed another very expensive dose. The Alpha Supremacy groups across the world had called for a complete ban of the product which they considered as ‘cheating’ as Alphas could no longer seek out their mates through smell. The Omega Interest Groups hailed the product as a breakthrough for all Omegas as the Beta Serum would enable to leave their traditional roles which confined them to bearing children and homemaking. Omegas entered the workforce like never before and it was no longer a rare sight to see an unescorted Omega down the streets alone and confidently. The Beta Interest Groups supported Omega Interest Groups as the Beta Serum would allow them close proximity to the Omegas and an equal footing to courting Omegas. They pointed out that the Omega Association provides matchmaking services only for the Alphas. The Betas is in a vast disadvantage as they have little or no access to Omegas. With the Omegas entering the workforce en masse, wooing an Omega was no longer a dream. The Omega Protection Association had wisely stayed out of the whole debate, refusing to publicly comment on the usage of Beta Serum by the Omegas although they offered a 50% subsidy for the purchase of O-Heat and Beta Serum for all Omegas registered at the Omega Register.

 

Mycroft was proud that the Holmes Family had supported the Omega Liberal Movement which other Noble Families had seen as a threat for their continued unlimited access and control over the Omega population. Sometimes he had wondered why his Father was so driven to ensure the success of the Omega Liberal Movement. He had all the power in his hand but he had devoted large amount of time in promoting Omega rights to the extent that he gave concessions to his enemies to ensure that certain oppressive Omega laws were removed. It was only when he was older that Mycroft believed that it was a result of his Father’s guilt, a slur to his honour for bringing an underage Omega to his marriage bed because the laws allowed him to do so. Yes, he could have rejected the bonding but it would be detriment to the interests of the Holmes family interests so he had bowed to the decision and had taken his Mother to his marriage bed. And as for his elder brother, Sherrinford, he had followed their Father’s footsteps in another way. After his graduation, Sherrinford has joined the Cambridge University as an Omega Biologist and from all accounts, he would be the next rising star in the study of Omega Biology and had made great strides in solving the mysteries of the Omega DNA. All in all, Mycroft was proud to be a member of the Holmes family and is sure that he would be following the footsteps of his Father and brother.

 

Mother became pregnant with Sherlock when he turned 7 years old. His Mother returned suddenly from France after leaving the Holmes ancestral manor for three months and announced that she was pregnant. This was the one of the defining moments that he learnt the important lesson to observe and just not see. There was a strange tension in the manor. His Father had stayed away from the manor, leaving behind Sherrinford and Mycroft to look after his pregnant Mother. His Mother was radiant throughout the pregnancy, although his Father is hardly around her to provide the support for the unborn child. By then, Sherrinford had already graduated from the Cambridge University and had moved back from the student hostel to the Holmes Manor permanently. He could have his pick of choice postings in any of the elite Universities or private research laboratories as an Omega biologist but he had chosen a little known private research laboratory near to the Holmes Manor so that he could commute daily and be home every night. Mycroft would not know how to deal with his hormonal mother whose mate is not around most of the time. Sherrinford had taken the role and have been infinitely patient with Mother, escorting her for the routine check-ups and ensuring that she would have the best maternal care to the extent of monitoring her intake of vitamins.

 

For the first time, Mycroft was resentful of his Father, his hero. He was sure that his Father’s absence has caused Mother to go into a sudden early labour. It was a known fact that the health of the unborn child is dependent on the pheromones of the Father. His Father was hardly around his Mother and the lack of exposure of the pheromones would have taken a toll to the health of both the Omega and the unborn child. Mother went into a sudden labour 2 months before the baby is due in the middle of the night while Father was away. Calmly, Sherrinford organised the panicked servants in the household and called for the ambulance. They boarded the ambulance with Mother and Sherrinford held Mother’s hands, murmuring words of comfort during the long ride to the hospital.

 

Mycroft had fallen asleep in the waiting room and by the time he woke up, the youngest Holmes brother, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, is born. Sherrinford, the responsible brother, has settled all the paper work and even the test results of Sherlock’s gender is ready and printed on the birth certificate.

 

“Wakey, wakey, Microft.” Sherrinford said as he gently woke Microft. “We have a new brother. Little William Sherlock Scott Holmes. “

 

Mycroft grabbed the birth certificate Sherrinford was holding and studied it.

 

 

**Name: William Sherlock Scott Holmes**   
**Father: Siger Holmes**   
**Mother: Violet Colangelo**   
**Sex: Male**

 

 

“Is Father here? He named our little brother?”

 

For a moment, a strange expression flickered across Sherrinford's face.

 

“No, Father is not here, Mycroft.” Sherrinford said. “I named him. Since Father is not interested, I think he hardly deserves to name our little Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft blinked. His mind hardly registered the impact of Sherrinford’s words. Sherrinford had always stayed out of Father’s way and this was the first time he saw Sherrinford challenging their Father’s authority directly.

 

Confused and not knowing what to say, Mycroft looked down at the birth certificate he held in his hand when his eyes saw the gender on the birth certificate. It was optional whether the baby would go through a gender testing which had a 99.99% accuracy rate at birth. It was against the law to discriminate against gender but many choose not to opt for the public gender testing as the results would be automatically entered into the public registries which everyone would have access. Babies who were Omegas would be automatically registered at the Omega Register, not accessible to the public. Once registered at the Omega Protection Association, almost every aspect of the Omega’s life would be supervised from birth to death. And upon presentation, the Omega’s potential mate would be chosen by the Omega Protection Association based on genetic compatibility. Although the Omega Protection Association declared that the Omegas would be free to reject the chosen mate, there were dark allegations that the Omega Protection Association that the Omegas were forced into bonding with Alphas especially if the Alphas came from a powerful or rich background.

 

Many parents chose to go for private testing as they did not want to make public if their precious baby turned out to be a Beta rather than the Alpha they wanted. Despite the laws against gender discrimination, schools and companies were known to screen the potential candidate at the public gender registries. Both Sherrinford and Mycroft’s gender were tested at an exclusive private laboratory known for its discretion which also provided Alpha or Omega Purity Index testing if the baby was an Alpha or Omega.

 

Mycroft blinked and rubbed his eyes again and stared at Sherlock’s birth certificate.

 

 

**Gender: Beta**

 

 

“You opted for public testing?” Mycroft asked. “Father would not be pleased.” Members from the Noble Families were normally not registered at the public registers. Omegas born in the Noble Families were only registered upon their arranged bonding with a suitable mate from the same social class.

 

Mycroft was not sure how Father would feel about having a Beta son. There were Betas in the Holmes Family lines but they were normally from the other branches of the family. Sherlock would be the first Beta born in the last hundred years in the main Holmes Family line.

 

“Don’t worry too much. The worst Father could do was to ignore Sherlock. The most important thing is that Sherlock would be safe.” A bitter look momentarily flashed through Sherrinford’s eyes. “There is no Beta Purity Index score Father could use to compare with others.”

 

Safe. In the event that the Holmes family lost their power base, both Mycroft and Sherrinford would be purged in the guise of various unfortunate accidents. But Sherlock would be safe as it was the unwritten rule that the Betas would be spared from purging.

 

“Mycroft.” Sherrinford lowered himself and looked into Mycroft’s eyes. “A person should be proud of what he is irrespective of his gender. It does not matter what Sherlock’s gender is. He would be given opportunity to excel and make his own mark in the world. Our baby brother would be loved by us.”

 

Sherrinford then led Mycroft to the hospital’s nursery.

 

“He is so tiny.” Mycroft whispered as he looked into the incubator. “When can we take him home?”

 

“Soon, Mycroft. We would taking baby Sherlock home soon.” Sherrinford said.

 

It was at this precise moment that Mycroft knew that it would be his lifelong duty to protect baby Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting between Dr John Watson and Mr Sherlock Holmes. The real reason why John took up the offer to be a flatmate was that it came with 'a room with a view'.

I am indebted to Ariane DeVere for her Sherlock transcripts. Her transcripts could be find at http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/. Without her transcripts, it would have taken me a lot of time to write this fic as I would need to re-watch Sherlock repeatedly. As this is an AU, this story does not strictly follow the sequence of events in Sherlock. I added little ‘twists’ in the actual transcripts so don’t blink and skip them. While there would be references to other cases in the subsequent chapers, The Study in Pink is the only Sherlock episode where a lot of passages are lifted. But rest be assured, it is quite different from the show. There would be plenty of flash backs to the childhood of Mycroft and Sherlock in the later chapters.

 

I am also indebted to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) for helping me to Beta read this chapter.

 

* * *

 

  _“He was abominable...and the most alluring, tortured soul I'd ever met.”_

― Becca Fitzpatrick

 

* * *

 

 

It was by chance he met Sherlock and ended up with a flatmate. Dr John Hamish Watson was both bemused and intrigued with the stranger who proceeded to give him a brief history of his life minutes upon meeting him.

 

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you have got a brother who is worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he is an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I am afraid.”

 

Before John could open his mouth to say a word at the stranger, an admittedly very attractive stranger now that he had got a good look at the stranger, he was given an invitation to be a flatmate.

 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.” The stranger winked and left the laboratory.

 

John mentally upgraded the status of the stranger from attractive to beautiful. A beautiful stranger with an unusual name. He raised an eyebrow and looked towards Mike Stamford, his classmate at St Bartholomew's Hospital during his undergraduate days.

 

“Yeah. He’s always like that. A brilliant man, though a bit too dramatic and flighty for a Beta,” Mike Stamford said.

 

Dramatic? Flighty?

 

“If you like excitement, take up his offer,” Mike Stamford said, a knowing look in his eyes. “After all, you seemed to enjoy running around abroad and getting shot at.”

 

Excitement? Hmmmm… things were looking up. He would love to get better acquainted with Mr Sherlock Holmes to find out what sort of excitement he could offer him.

 

 

\-----

 

 

John returned to his temporary accommodation, a bedsit catered for returning soldiers. He looked across to the table where his laptop was lying. He walked over and switched it on. He clicked on his web browser to access a search engine and typed “Sherlock Holmes” into the search box. The first search result was “The Science of Deduction”.

 

_Interesting. Beauty and brains do come together._

 

Sherlock Holmes. Holmes. A common enough surname. John had mentally catalogued Sherlock as posh, possibly from the upper class judging from his accent and the clothes he wore which he had not mistaken probably were from the most exclusive tailors catered for the obscenely rich and powerful. Sherlock’s dramatic exit earlier, however, reminded him of someone. A certain someone whom he was not keen to have any contacts with.

 

With a slight hesitation, John searched the internet for “Family tree of Noble Families in United Kingdom”. He scrolled down the list and clicked on “Holmes”.

 

 

**The title of the Holmes Family is currently maintained by Mycroft Holmes.**

 

 

He looked at the Holmes Family Tree.

 

 

**Sherrinford Holmes (deceased)**

**Mycroft Holmes**

**William Sherlock Scott Holmes**

 

 

So the stranger, who offered to share his flat, was the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman. While the general population was not aware who truly held the power to the country, the bloody power manoeuvres behind the scenes, John was one of the persons who knew exactly who the puppet masters were. John frowned. A dark flicker crossed his face. Perhaps he should rethink whether to turn up for the flat viewing or not. He had once sworn that he would not get involved in the power struggles of the Elites from the Noble Families. But Sherlock was a Beta and he was unlikely to be involved in the power struggles which remained the domain of the Alphas. Well, there was no harm to turn up for the flat viewing. He could always turn down the offer. He refused to acknowledge that the tiny John Alpha wearing a fuzzy jumper, who resided at the back of his mind, was doing cartwheels at the prospect of meeting Sherlock again.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Located at a prime spot that came with a special deal from the landlady, 221B would be a good place to rent. John looked around the living room and saw all the untidy possessions and boxes scattered around it. It looked as though Sherlock had already moved in for some time. The living room was decidedly middle-class and Sherlock looked out of place with the expensive and well cut clothes he wore. Why would he need a flatmate? Even though Sherlock was a Beta, he was still the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes, arguably the most powerful man in England. Money would never be an issue for Sherlock. John was sure he could afford the most exclusive apartment in the most prestigious spot in London.

 

“You would need to tidy up the place,” John said mildly, looking disapprovingly at the mess in the living room.

 

“Sure,” Sherlock muttered and made a half-hearted attempt to tidy the mess, throwing a couple of folders into a box and stacking the books into one haphazard pile which was in danger of collapsing. A thought struck Sherlock and he threw a suspicious look towards John. “I am NEVER wrong but you do not happen to have OCD right?”

 

“Nope, no OCD. Only PTSD,” John replied with a cheerful smile as he settled to a comfortable armchair which he mentally tagged as HIS.

 

He then noticed a skull at the mantle place, a piece of unusual decoration. And from experience, it was a real human skull and not a fake decorative piece. John lifted his cane and pointed at it.

 

“That’s a skull. A real human skull,” John said. “Care to share what a skull is doing on the mantlepiece? I must say it is a highly unusual decorative item.”

 

“He is my muse. The best sort of friend you can have. Never answers you back and bores you with stupid answers,” Sherlock replied while he wondered if the tiny area he cleared would be sufficient for John’s stuff.

 

 

\-----

 

 

As Sherlock continued to make a half-hearted attempt to tidy up the living room, John was enjoying the tantalising view of a fine arse encased in tight trousers that fitted like a glove as Sherlock bent over to pick up a magazine which fell off from the haphazard pile where he piled all the magazines. That delicious arse gave a new definition to ‘a room with a view’. The view was the main reason why he accepted the offer to be a flatmate. From where he was sitting, he concluded that the arse in front of him was an Omega-worthy arse which was giving him the urge to fondle and caress it.

 

Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen, reading the newspapers.

 

“These horrible suicides. Three exactly the same. I thought that would be right up your street, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said.

 

To John’s disappointment, Sherlock straightened his back and walked over to the window and watched as a police car pulled up outside 221B Baker Street.

 

“Four,” Sherlock said.

 

He looked down at the police car and a familiar figure got out of the police car.

 

“There has been a fourth. And there is something different this time,” Sherlock mused, hardly containing the excitement in his eyes.

 

“A fourth?” Mrs Hudson squeaked.

 

All three occupants heard someone running up the stairs and D.I. Lestrade, the only long-suffering Beta D.I. willing to put up with Sherlock’s interference in crime investigation, appeared.

 

“Where?”

 

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

 

“What is new about this one? You would not have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

 

“You know how they never leave notes?”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

 

“This one did. Will you come?”

 

Sherlock tried to look aloof and uninterested.

 

“Not in a police car. I will be right behind you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Approximately thirty seconds after Lestrade left 221B Baker Street, Sherlock jumped into the air and clenched his fist triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

 

“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!” Sherlock exclaimed happily as his mask of total boredom fell off.

 

Sherlock picked up his scarf and coat and put them on and looked towards John.

 

“You are a doctor. In fact you are an Alpha Army doctor.”

 

“Yes”

 

“Any good?”

 

“Very good.”

 

“Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.”

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

 

“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

 

“Want to see some more?”

 

“Oh God, yes.”

 

John followed Sherlock out of the room and down the stairs.

 

“Both of you are going?”

 

Sherlock hugged and kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek.

 

“Possible suicides? Four of them? There is no point sitting at home when there is something fun going on!”

 

“Look at you, all happy. It is not decent.”

 

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”

 

John smiled as he followed the excited Sherlock out of the house. The game was on indeed. A game he planned to play with Mr Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Greg Lestrade stared at the shorter man standing beside Sherlock. When asked about the identity of the stranger, Sherlock muttered cryptically, “He’s with me”. Throughout the years working with the self-styled “consulting detective”, Sherlock never had a companion with him at the crime scene. Especially, if he had not mistaken, this ‘he’s-with-me’ companion was an Alpha. What made this ‘he’s-with-me’ companion so special?

 

John knew that people were staring at him. From the Sergeant and Forensic Technician outside the house to the D.I. whom he had seen earlier at the Baker Street flat. But he was too enthralled watching Sherlock moving around the dead body in the middle of the floor. Sherlock was obviously in his element. Like a dancer, he moved about gracefully as he examined the crime scene. He knelt and bent over the dead body looking at it intently. Then, very slowly, he stretched his back, almost sensuously, his eyes closed, took a few long, deep breathes.

 

Betas were scentless, unremarkable in life and death. For Alphas, their scent disappeared the moment they died, their body chemical would break down the scent glands almost simultaneously, leaving them scentless, like the Betas they looked down. In death, both Alphas and Betas were equal. Scentless. But for Omegas, the natural scent which made them so tantalising in life, turned to something more pensive. A devastating sense of loss. It was a smell of an Omega’s death. Although irresistible in life, nobody wanted to be near a dead Omega. It was said that the scent of a dead Omega would scar one’s soul. Even in death, Omegas would still haunt the living.

 

His knees on the floor, Sherlock bent over the dead Omega body and almost reverently he stared at it intently. All of a sudden, Sherlock straightened up, arched his back and started to breathe deeply.

 

 

IN…OUT…

IN…OUT…

 

 

Oh Jesus, the scene in front of him was bordering on… indecency but John did not have the will to look way. There was something intimate and almost… erotic about it, forcing the other occupants in the room to be unwilling voyeurs. Sherlock was on a high… as if he were alone and on the verge of orgasm as he breathed in and out deeply. Tiny sounds escaped from Sherlock’s mouth and John’s cock hardened uncomfortably and as he felt the rush of hot blood to his cock. Dark desires, unbidden, rose suddenly and John’s Alpha mind started to whisper… MATE… CONQUER… RAVISH… It was as though he was back on the battlefields in Afghanistan, his mind clouded with bloodlust. The bewitching creature in front of him was prey… he wanted to mark it… to see blood on the pale skin…

 

John found himself breathing in tandem with Sherlock. At the back of his mind, he noted that D.I. Lestrade, who had blocked off access to the room where the dead body was found, had refused to look at Sherlock ever since the detective started to examine the crime scene, clearly uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. With a grunt, John cleared his mind of the thoughts what his Alpha mind commanded him to do. Jesus, what was he thinking? It had been a long time since his libido went out of control as a hot-headed eighteen year old Alpha when he fucked his first and only Omega female, a remarkable lady who carved a niche in the world for herself despite her gender. Perhaps it had been far too long since he last fucked that he got hard at a crime scene with a dead body.

 

Sherlock lowered his head and opened his eyes, looking at John from under his eyes and long eyelashes, his eyes seemingly landed on the hard budge in front of John’s trousers. A small secret smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He then raised his head and stared directly into John’s eyes, challenging the Alpha’s authority.

 

“Re-mar-kable,” Sherlock drawled his words slowly, breaking the spell which momentarily called upon John’s Alpha’s instincts to pounce on the enticing creature in front of him and rut. “Dr Watson, what do you think?”

 

“Of the body?” John asked, proud that his voice remained steady as he moved towards Sherlock. He lowered himself to one knee, close to Sherlock. He stole a glance at Sherlock’s neck and had the irrational need to sniff it, even though as a Beta, Sherlock would be scentless. John ignored his innate Alpha instincts and examined the body in front of him. “Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure, possibly drugs.”

 

“Victim is in her late thirties. Rich, going by her clothes although she seemed to have an alarming fetish with pink. Pink clothes. Pink shoes. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase. Could you smell anything on her, Dr Watson? Other than the Omega scent of course,” Sherlock asked, transforming from the alluring creature he was earlier to a professional consultant, calm, logical and devoid of all emotions.

 

“Suitcase?” Lestrade asked as he listened carefully to Sherlock’s analysis. “What suitcase?”

 

John bent down and sniffed. No Alpha scent. The scientists had tried but no one had managed to develop a scent suppressant which would block the pheromones of an Alpha. The Alpha pheromone was a biological imperative to attract the Omega and it had proved to be resistant to all human’s attempt to suppress. If the killer was an Alpha, his pheromones would still be on the victim for at least one day. Since the victim died only a few hours ago, it was unlikely that murderer was an Alpha.

 

“Only the victim’s scent. I could not smell any Alpha pheromones on the victim or in this room,” John said. “Perhaps the killer is a Beta or possibly an Omega who has injected the Beta serum.”

 

“Of course, the killer is a Beta. The killer is clever. Logical. Calm. A mere Alpha would not be able to devise such a diabolical plan. The Alphas can only think with their lower part of the body. No aptitude for being a serial killer which actually required brain cells to plan that Alphas plainly lacked. A DNA defect, I am afraid,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. He then added grudgingly, “The perpetuator could also be an Omega injected with the Beta serum. Omegas are more likely to be involved in a crime of passion. But there is always a first in everything.” Sherlock brightened momentarily at the thought of an Omega serial killer. It was his professional opinion that Jack the Ripper was an Omega although it was never proven since the killer died two hundred years ago. Perhaps the killer could be the first modern day Omega serial killer?

 

“What **SUITCASE**?” Lestrade asked again, trying to hide a smile. It was pure Sherlock. He just had to insult the only Alpha in the room, even though said Alpha was the first Alpha companion he voluntarily bought to a crime scene. Not to mention that Sherlock as a Beta actually needed an Alpha to confirm whether there were any Alpha pheromones. As a Beta, Sherlock wasn’t able to smell it himself, something which must have irritated him to no end. All the Alphas in New Scotland Yard had refused to work with Sherlock since he had insulted every one of them.

 

“Judging from the age and state of the wedding ring, the victim has been married at least ten years, but not happily. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them but none of them knew she was married,” Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s question and continued with his deduction. In the past it was unheard of Omegas having any extramarital affairs after bonding. With the Omega Liberation Movement, a lot of things had changed, including Omega’s attitude towards sex.

 

“That’s brilliant!” John said admiringly, even though he was one of the Alphas whom Sherlock had insulted earlier.

 

Sherlock looked momentarily shocked and then nodded approvingly at the compliment as his due.

 

It reminded John of a cat his mother used to own. A proud creature that made it clear to everyone that it was the centre of the universe and all the lowly creatures shall bow and worship it. He wanted to pet and kick the cat simultaneously.

 

“I hate to interrupt. But what suitcase?” Lestrade asked for the third time, almost shouting. “How’d you know she had a **BLOODY SUITCASE**?” He blamed his rapidly greying hair on Sherlock. All those cryptic deductions before revealing them and making everyone around look stupid had tempted more than one officer into punching Sherlock.

 

“Back of the right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get the splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread,” Sherlock pointed down to the victim where her tights had small black splotches on the lower part of her leg. “Surely even you could see that, Lestrade.”

 

“There wasn’t a case.”

 

Sherlock whipped around and stared at Lestrade.

 

“Say that again.”

 

“There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.”

 

“Ah, a mistake finally! The killer must have driven her here and forgot the case was in the car,” Sherlock said as he made his way down the stairs to the front door and disappeared without another backward glance.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Forgotten and ignored by all the police officers who now moved into the room which contained the murdered victim, John slowly made his way down the stairs and walked out of the building. Looking around, he could see no signs of Sherlock. He walked towards the police tape and Sgt. Donovan which he met earlier saw him.

 

“Freak is gone,” Donavan said.

 

“Who? Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Yeah, he just took off. He does that all the time.”

 

“Right,” John said, unsure what to do next. Perhaps he should find a cab to take him back to Baker Street.

 

“Who are you? You are the freak’s…”

 

Donovan saw the disapproving look on John’s face who exerted his Alpha Dominance slightly and amended her words quickly, “Sherlock’s friend? No. You are not his friend. He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”

 

“I’m… I’m nobody. I just met him,” John said, he would love to know about the alluring creature and be more than Sherlock’s ‘friend’.

 

“Okay, a bit of advice then. Stay AWAY from that guy.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, especially it involves Omega murder victim, the more he gets off. You know, we had a bet earlier when you arrived here with that freak…I mean Sherlock.”

 

“A bet?”

 

“Yeah, a bet to see how long you would last before you would be beaten and thrown out.”

 

“Really, why?”

 

“Nobody wants to be near to an Omega murder victim,” Donavan said, waving her hands, “you know, it makes anyone feel… uncomfortable… like you lost someone important even though you might not even know the victim,” Donovan said. Leaning closer to John, she whispered. “Did you see how Sherlock acted around the victim? The way he sniffed the victim and looked as though he was on a high, like having an orgasm? It was… obscene.”

 

Oh yes, John certainly remembered how sensuous Sherlock looked. He almost pounced on him.

 

“Look around you. Did you not notice that we have no Alpha police officers here? Lestrade would not allow any Alpha officers at a crime scene where he wanted Sherlock’s presence. The last time we had an Alpha officer here, he attacked Sherlock when Sherlock did that sniffing thing.” Sgt. Sally Donovan looked earnestly at John. “He plays a dangerous game. He knows what buttons to press and he thrives on it. Flaunting it. He is even affecting the Beta officers… and we don’t really succumb to this type of… desires,” Donavan said, a mix of dark desire and loathing on her face. “Lestrade is the only one I know who’s not affected by him. But you know what? The freak – I mean Sherlock – is playing with fire. One day showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. If there is a serial killer of Omegas, he would be my number one suspect on the list. He gets off being around dead Omegas.”

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

“Because he is a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored.”

 

“Donovan!” Lestrade called from the entrance to the house.

 

“Stay away from him,” Donovan whispered urgently. “If he is not the one doing all those serial Omega murders one day, he will be the one murdered. He is a Beta. But he drives all of us crazy. He is capable of calling out the dark desires hidden in us, doing violent, nasty things to him that would kill him. He knows it and he is constantly tempting the people around him. That Alpha police officer, who assaulted him, would have raped and killed him that day. If you stay around him, one day, you will/might be tempted and you will be the one killing him.”

 

John stared after Sgt. Donovan who turned her back and walked towards the house. A small dark smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock. Something inside him stirred, the primitive and vicious side that he had kept in check in the civilised world. Prey… the Alpha inside his mind whispered.

 

 

\------

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kick me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtual pictures that inspired this chapter 
> 
> a) Sherlock bending over to tidy the magazines offering John a tantalising view of his arse 
> 
> b) that scene where Sherlock did his 'breathing exercise' and John getting flustered with it.
> 
>  
> 
> This is my first fic. I am really touched by the kudos and reviews left for chapter 1. They gave me a fuzzy feeling and impetus to continue the story. Constructive criticisms welcomed. You could email me at cherryblossomtart@gmail.com or kindly leave your review at the comments section.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is Dr John Watson? Apparently, you can learn a lot of things from the mindless programs on telly. Interaction between the Holmes brothers.

I am indebted to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) for helping me to Beta read this chapter.

 

* * *

 

 

Several hours later after being dumped by Sherlock at Brixton, John was slowly walking along the street, trying to hail a taxi. To his right, the phone in the public telephone box started to ring. John looked briefly at it and continued down the road. The phone stopped ringing. As he passed by a fast food restaurant, a payphone on the wall began to ring. John turned and saw one of the service staff walk over to the phone but the phone stopped ringing.

 

Hmm… two ringing public phones. John saw a public telephone box further down the street. Without hesitation, he walked towards the public telephone box and opened the door. The third ringing phone. He lifted the phone.

 

“Hello, Mycroft. What took you so long?”

 

A black car pulled up at the kerbside next to the public telephone box. A male driver got out and opened the door of the car.

 

“Get into the car, Dr Watson,” the voice at the other side of the phone said.

 

John put down the phone and smiled. He walked out of the public telephone box and got into the waiting car.

 

“Hello, Anthea,” John said as he settled down on the comfortable car seat next to the woman at the back passenger seat.

 

“Hello, Dr Watson.” The woman looked up briefly before focusing her full attention on her BlackBerry.

 

\-----

 

Sometime later, the car pulled into a deserted warehouse. A well-dressed man in a suit was standing in the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella as he watched the car stop.

 

John got out of the car and made his way to the chair placed in front the man.

 

“An empty warehouse? There is no need to be so melodramatic, Mycroft. Channelling your ‘Inner Criminal Mastermind”? The last time we met, it was in a nice office and dear Anthea even offered me a cup of tea,” John said as he settled on the chair. “What do you want, Mycroft? I thought I have already retired.”

 

“Your resignation letter is still on my table. As long as I have not approved your resignation, you are still under the employment of the British government.”

 

“You knew what happened, Mycroft,” John said quietly, tapping his leg with his cane. “PTSD. I even have a therapist now who thinks that I still have trust issues.”

 

“Ah, the hero. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” Mycroft said.

 

“What do you want, Mycroft? I don’t think I am in any trouble. If so, we would not be meeting in this place,” John said. “It would be in that nice little place where your people like to practise their interrogation skills.”

 

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Ah, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. The younger Beta brother of THE British government.” John shrugged his shoulders. “I barely know him. I only met him… yesterday. But enough to know that he is followed by two MI5 agents the moment he stepped out of the flat. And those CCTV cameras? At least four are on him at all times.”

 

“Mmmm… and since yesterday, you have moved in with him and now you are solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?

 

John shrugged his shoulders, his cane tapping against the leg of the chair. Tap tap tap. John smiled when he saw that Mycroft was irritated by the tapping sound.

 

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?”

 

“Why not? I need a flatmate and a friend of mine told me that he could provide lots of excitement. You have any objections?” John challenged.

 

“You’re very loyal, very quickly. Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock of all people? After all he is from a… social class… which you despise. Your therapist said you have trust issues, remember?”

 

“Trust issues?” John said sardonically. “I am sure your fucking file has the reason why I have trust issues.”

 

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft said gently. “Your ex-colleagues have died in their line of duty. And I have seen to it personally that their dependents had nothing to worry for the rest of their lives.”

 

“Died in their line of duty? They were collaterals in those little power struggles your people are so fond of playing.”

 

“Sherlock belongs to the class of people who likes to engage in what you so eloquently termed as ‘power struggles’.”

 

“He is a Beta. Noble Families treat their dogs better than Betas.”

 

“There is no need to be so defensive. If I am convinced that you have any… ulterior motives, you would be in that little room where we ‘practise’ our interrogation skills and not this luxurious place which actually comes with a fairly comfortable chair. By the way, if you are interested, we have just published our seventh edition of ‘Interrogation Manual’ incorporating some new interrogation techniques which our foreign counterparts had kindly shared during one of those annual retreats.”

 

“So, why am I here? Catching up with each other like… friends?”

 

“Sherlock would have told you that I have no… friends. I am here to offer you a little incentive. I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way if you do plan to continue your association with Sherlock in exchange for information. Nothing you’d feel… uncomfortable with or compromise with your sense of… honour. “

 

“Why? You have two MI5 agents following him and thousands of CCTV following him the moment he steps out of the door.”

 

“Sherlock is a wild child. Out of control. He is resentful of the controls and safeguards that I imposed on him as one of the members of the direct line of the Holmes family. If you have bothered to do some research, you would have realised that my family values Betas. I would not be standing here if the Betas in my line had not turned the family fortune around.”

 

“The protection gig. A bit of an overkill for a Beta, isn’t it? The only code of conduct you people actually follow is the Beta Sanctuary where Betas are safe from any power struggles.”

“I worry about Sherlock. Constantly. Not of my… enemies harming him. His Beta status is the best form of protection for him. As I said he has always been a wild child. He would like to think that he is a calm and logical individual. The poor child is delusional. Sherlock craves constant excitement. When he is bored, he engages in reckless acts. Sherlock and I have an agreement which allows him a certain degree of freedom. Any tighter control and he will retaliate with reckless actions which have more than once landed him in the hospital, close to death.”

 

“I won’t be your baby brother’s keeper, Mycroft,” John said. “I am only his flatmate who will be happy as long as he pays his share of the rent promptly and keeps the place reasonably clean.”

 

“Show me,” Mycroft nodded towards John’s left hand. For the first time, Mycroft used his Alpha Dominance. Not in the traditional Alpha way through simple Alpha posturing. Simply by raising an eyebrow, John could feel the air being thick with Alpha pheromones to obey and submit. John fought against the urge to obey and deliberately shifted his feet under him as if digging them in. He raised his left hand, bending it at the shoulder, and stood still. John’s message was clear. If Mycroft wanted to look at his hand, he would have to come to him.

 

As sudden as it appeared, the Alpha pheromones dissipated. Truce.

 

Mycroft reached for John’s hand. John reluctantly lowered his hand, holding it flat with the palm down. Mycroft took the hand with both of his hands and looked at it closely.

 

“Remarkable.”

 

“What is remarkable?”

 

“Most people blunder around this city and all they see are the streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

 

“What’s wrong with my hand?”

 

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand.”

 

John nodded his head, his eyes narrowed.

 

“Your therapist thinks it is post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service in Afghanistan.” Mycroft then leaned over John. “Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You are under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady.

 

John’s eyes flickered down towards his hand and jammed it into his left pocket. “

 

You are not haunted by the war, John… you miss it. You miss the excitement,” Mycroft whispered into John’s ears. “And you recognised a kindred soul in Sherlock when you met him. Someone who would crave excitement like a drug.”

 

John’s phone sounded a text alert.

 

“Anthea will send you back to Baker Street. My brother no doubt has texted you about some new developments about the suicide cases.”

 

“You do know what happened to my… ex-colleague who shared the same craving.”

 

“Yes, but you could not help it, right? Once you found your kindred spirit. It is like a moth to a flame. So would you rein in Sherlock so that both of you could go in search for bigger and more dangerous excitement? Will you follow him to the bitter end? Even I cannot deduce that.”

 

“Well,” John gave a slow smile. “Isn’t it exciting? Not knowing the end? That you can’t use your balance of probability to deduce the outcome? “

 

“I am trying something new I learnt from those mindless talk shows on TV. I am going by my gut instincts, John. I have faith that the outcome will be favourable. Welcome back, Dr Watson.”

 

“I learnt this from those mindless TV shows too,” John flipped his third finger at Mycroft.

 

\------

 

At the Baker Street living room, Sherlock was lying stretched out on the sofa with his head towards the window and resting on a cushion. With his jacket off and his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up to his arms, he had his eyes closed and he was pressing the palm of his right hand firmly onto the underside of his left arm just below the elbow. He stared fixedly up towards the ceiling. He sighed out a noisy breath and relaxed. Sherlock knew that his new flatmate was probably invited into one of the empty warehouses. His dear brother, Mycroft the drama queen, would be informing his hapless flatmate of his ‘new assignment’ and instilling the fear of God into him.

 

\-----

 

**Two months ago at an undisclosed location**

 

_“You want **WHAT**?” Mycroft said, as he choked over his tea._

 

_“Maybe you should go for another medical check-up, brother dear,” Sherlock said as he took another sip of his teacup. “Hard of hearing?”_

 

 _“You want an_ **ALPHA** _flatmate? Are you out of your mind?” Mycroft spluttered. “You are a_ **SEXIST** _! And you want an_ **ALPHA** _flatmate?”_

 

“I need someone whom I can rely on during my investigations.”

 

_“I could get Greg to arrange…” “_

 

_The Alphas at the New Scotland Yard? They are idiots. The standards at New Scotland Yard have dropped alarmingly. I swear they will recruit anyone as long they can walk straight and their eyes don’t stare at two different directions.”_

 

 _“Actually no one wants to work with_ **YOU** _since you insulted every one of them. A_ **FLATMATE** _? Are you having a fever, Sherlock?” Worried, Mycroft leant over and put his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. No fever. Then Mycroft put his hand on his own forehead. Perhaps he was the one having a fever and this bizarre conversation with Sherlock was a dream, conjured up by his own fevered mind._

 

_“I hate to admit it,” Sherlock drawled, “but only an Alpha can smell Alpha pheromones, an evolutionary leftover from our primitive ancestors so that Alphas can mark their territories like dogs that have an urge to urinate at every lamp post.”_

 

_“You want a sniffer dog?”_

 

_“Now, I didn’t say that. Who is the sexist now, Mycroft?” Sherlock said primly. “Or have you finally recognised the inferiority of your gender?”_

 

_“I could get someone to help. Someone who can tolerate your… eccentricities. There’s no need to get a flatmate. Even though you are a Beta, it is still not appropriate for single Betas to stay with an Alpha.”_

 

_“Worried about my virtue? You do realise that we are living in the twenty-first century, right?” Sherlock said, a challenging look in his eyes._

 

_Mycroft groaned inwardly as he recognised the look in Sherlock’s eyes. Brat. Whenever Sherlock had that look, nothing on earth was going to stop Sherlock from what he wanted. If he didn’t get his way within the next five minutes, Sherlock’s lower lip would start to quiver and he would give Mycroft the kicked puppy eyes look, a look which he had perfected at the tender age of three, a look guaranteed to wrap Mycroft around Sherlock’s little finger. Mycroft could never refuse Sherlock’s request when Sherlock started at him with a kicked puppy’s eye look – whether it was a tub of ice cream Sherlock insisted to eat even though he had a tummy ache an hour earlier or ice skating on the lake which was frozen just the night before._

 

_“Fine. I will get a list of suitable candidates for you to go through,” Mycroft gave up the fight. At least Sherlock had informed him and allowed him to help. If he did not help, Sherlock would still go ahead and invite an Alpha flatmate to the Baker Street flat, someone Mycroft would probably not approve. At least by acceding to Sherlock’s ‘request’, he got to choose and vet the candidates very, very thoroughly. In fact, the family background of the candidates might need to be examined under the microscope all the way back to nine generations._

 

 _“I only have two requirements,” Sherlock pushed a handwritten note to Mycroft_.

 

_Mycroft took the note and read. “A medical doctor? Would be handy since he would be able to patch you up immediately when you get into those scrapes,” Mycroft said. He then squinted at the next requirement. “And someone who is shorter than you?” Mycroft said incredulously, “What sort of stupid requirement is this?”_

 

_“I don’t want an Alpha who is taller than me running along with me,” Sherlock said petulantly._

 

_Mycroft tried to hide a smile. Sherlock was born premature. Until Sherlock hit a growth spurt when he was fourteen, Sherlock was sorely upset that he was shorter than children of his own age. Sherlock insisted that Mycroft had a giant paper chart that measured children’s height pasted behind Mycroft’s bedroom door. Every night, Sherlock would insist Mycroft to measure his height every night until Mycroft went to boarding school. Mycroft still remembered the nights where he comforted a teary Sherlock who wailed that he would remain a midget for the rest of his life. Apparently, Sherlock never got over his lack of height during his childhood days._

 

_“Fine, I will tell Anthea to send you a list of suitable candidates.”_

 

_“Well, thank you, brother dear,” Sherlock said as he stood up. “Time for me to get back to Baker Street then,” Sherlock said as he put on his coat. He waited impatiently as Mycroft fussed over him, adjusting his coat and gloves and wrapping the scarf around his neck. It was a ritual since young, Mycroft fussing over him when he was about to step away from the safe confines under the watchful eyes of Mycroft._

 

_“Please, Mycroft. I am not likely to die from pneumonia as it would take me less than a minute to get from the car, that stops just outside Baker Street, to the flat.”_

 

_“Humor me,” Mycroft said, finally satisfied that Sherlock would be protected from the cold._

 

_“Here, Anthea. You know what to do with them,” Sherlock passed a bag of fridge magnets to Mycroft’s PA as he left the living room._

 

_Mycroft looked at the bag of fridge magnets in profound distaste._

 

_“THOSE fridge magnets again? I thought Sherlock would have run out of them by now,” Mycroft groaned.“Fridge magnets do not match the decoration of my office or my house.”_

 

_“Sherlock told the company, which produces the fridge magnets, to produce them for him exclusively,” Anthea said. “_

 

_What if I give you a pay increment if you get rid of this bag of fridge magnets as well as those you pasted on every metal surface?” Mycroft looked hopefully at Anthea._

 

_“No, Mr Holmes,” Anthea said, her eyes dancing merrily. “For some reason, ensuring these fridge magnets are pasted is part of the job description when I was hired. And the continued existence of the fridge magnets is apparently part of the Key Performance Indicators for my Annual Staff Evaluation Report. Carries a 50% weightage to my final score. Failing this may mean that my performance grade may drop from an ‘A+’ grade straight to an ‘F’ grade.”_

 

_Mycroft picked a fridge magnet from the bag Sherlock left behind._

 

_The message of this irritatingly bright and cheerful yellow fridge magnet read:_

 

 

**I’m smiling because I’m your brother.**

**I’m laughing because you can’t do anything about it!**

 

 

_Mycroft groaned again. These fridge magnets were the bane of his existence. Mycroft had taken Sherlock to explore the streets of London as a treat when Sherlock turned eight. At one of the London shops, Sherlock discovered fridge magnets and promptly bought the entire stock. Since then, Mycroft could not turn without seeing the irritatingly bright yellow fridge magnets with the cheerful message._

 

 

_\------_

 

**Seven days ago**

 

_“Anthea,” Mycroft said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was bone-tired after averting yet another impending terrorist attack on London. “Did you send the personal files of the list of potential flatmates to Sherlock?_

 

_“He said he only required the photos of the candidates,” Althea said. “Claimed that all Alphas are the same. So rather than wasting his time, he will pick someone who is easy on the eyes.”_

 

_“Whom did he pick?”_

 

_“Dr John Hamish Watson.”_

 

_Mycroft gave a small secret smile. Sherlock might have him wrapped round his little finger. But he knew how to push Sherlock into making an ‘informed’ decision. Let the poor delusional child believe that he had made the choice on his own. He knew Sherlock would pick John Watson once he saw the picture of him wearing a fuzzy jumper. Actually, John Watson was the only candidate who passed Mycroft’s intensive screening. It was really not in Sherlock’s interest to know that, right?_

 

 

\------

 

**Present Day Baker Street living room**

 

Sherlock looked at his watch. John should be back the next five minutes. Mycroft’s shock-and-awe talks normally didn’t last more than thirty minutes. Sherlock heard the door opening.

 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, noting absently that his new flatmate looked pretty pissed off.

 

“Just met our mutual acquaintance,” John said as he settled down in his armchair and put his cane aside.

 

“A friend?” Sherlock asked.

 

“You know whom I am talking about.”

 

“Ah, of course,” Sherlock said. Curious, he asked, “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you take it?”

 

“No. I am not a nanny for hire.”

 

“Pity. You missed a golden opportunity to scam him,” Sherlock said, slightly disappointed. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

 

John was at a loss for words. He looked across the room and noticed that the skull was missing from the mantelpiece.

 

“What happened to your human skull?” John asked, pointing at the empty space on the mantelpiece.

 

“Mrs Hudson took my skull,” Sherlock sighed mournfully. “Claimed that the soul of the skull would be wandering restlessly in the flat. I lost my muse. But you can fill in nicely.”

 

“So I’m filling in basically for your skull?” “You have an added advantage of not attracting attention outside. I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention. Detrimental to my Work. I did think of getting a B.J.D. though.”

 

“B.J.D.?” John asked, bewildered. The Holmes brothers were driving him crazy.

 

“Ball-Jointed Doll,” Sherlock explained as he saw the bewildered look on John’s face.

 

“Ball-Jointed Doll?” John repeated. So he won the battle against a skull and a doll to be a… muse?

 

“Yes. And if I misplaced you somewhere, I trust that you would be able to find your way home,” Sherlock looked patronisingly at John. Alphas. Just proved his point about the intellectual inferiority of Alphas. Even Britain’s Secret Service could not find an Alpha who could match Sherlock’s obvious intellectual superiority. The ball-jointed doll was a serious contender to be his muse. It was a pity that a six foot man carrying a ball-jointed doll would also attract the wrong type of attention. Dr John Watson had just won himself the coveted position to be Sherlock’s muse.

 

Despite himself, John smiled reluctantly. Sherlock. A carelessly charming and infuriating creature. He had a sudden sympathy for Mycroft. Sherlock must be responsible for his brother’s rapidly reclining hairline.

 

\-----

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kick me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtual pictures that inspired this chapter:
> 
> a. John flipping his third finger at Mycroft
> 
> b. The fridge magnet. I actually have the fridge magnet except that it reads 'sister' and not 'brother'. My younger sister bought it for me and pasted it at the fridge in the kitchen. It provided a lot of amusement to family and friends who saw the fridge magnet.
> 
> As usual, thanks to all who left kudos and comments. Constructive criticisms welcomed. You could email me at cherryblossomtart@gmail.com or kindly leave your review at the comments section.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story continues.......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter where I followed BBC's Sherlock episode "Study in Pink". Don't blink, it is a re-write and contains some rather crucial information. From the next chapter onwards, while there are mentions of other Sherlock's episodes, the story is more or less original. After going through the transcripts and watching "Study in Pink" multiple times, it would be a long time before I could stomach watching that particular episode on TV.
> 
>  

I am indebted to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) for helping me to Beta read this chapter.

 

* * *

 

Merely hours after John declared that he was not the keeper of Mycroft’s brother, John found himself running all over London with Sherlock in search of the serial killer who had the mysterious power to get his victims to self-poison. He was almost run over by a car and performing death stunts jumping across roofs. It reminded him of his Afghanistan days. John panted and chided himself mentally for slacking on his exercise regime ever since he returned to London. He nearly had a heart attack when Sherlock literally hurled himself in the path of the approaching cab when they finally gained on it. But unfortunately after the intensive chase from the Italian restaurant, where the owner thought that he was Sherlock’s ‘boyfriend’, it was discovered that they had the wrong person. The hapless passenger turned out to have a solid alibi as he was an Alpha American tourist who had recently arrived from the United States. He half-expected to get an earful from the American tourist and a threat to sue New Scotland Yard for stopping the cab illegally. Americans were notorious for suing everything and anything under the sun. However, D.I Greg Lestrade was unlikely to receive a complaint from the passenger against him any time soon.

 

“Are you _sure_ you have no more questions to ask, officer?” the American tourist asked hopefully. The look of irritation melted when he caught sight of Sherlock. In fact, the passenger looked as though he wouldn’t be terribly upset if Sherlock conducted a personal one-on-one strip search on him, preferably in a private room. “

 

Yes, sorry for any inconvenience caused, sir. Welcome to London.”

 

John growled, noticing that the American passenger’s eyes lit up with the word ‘sir’ uttered by Sherlock.

 

“This is my name card,” the American passenger said as he passed a name card to Sherlock, pressing his hand on Sherlock’s just a little longer than necessary. “I’ll be in London for one week. The Dorchester. Wellington Suite. I’d be delighted to help you in any way.” The American passenger’s eyes roamed appreciatively over Sherlock’s body.

 

He was already mentally undressing Sherlock and planning on what he wanted to do if Sherlock did turn up at his hotel room, John thought, barely able to control his Alpha instincts to tackle the passenger. The American tourist pressed closer to Sherlock and took his hand to his own lips. He gave a surreptitious sniff. Not Omega. But that did not matter. He had never seen such an attractive Beta before and he could not wait to get to know him better. Normally he would prefer Betas with strong Omega attributes, petite, fragile with large, innocent eyes. But there was something about the Beta officer in front of him that caught his interest, something he couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was his proud demeanour, the way he held himself despite apologising him. He had a feeling that there was a proud man under the meek and polite mask. It would be heady to have the power to get a proud man kneeling before him, satisfying his every need. Suddenly, the image of Sherlock naked, his hands tied behind him, kneeling in front of him and giving him a blow job appeared in the mind of the American passenger. The American passenger got bolder and his other hand started to move towards Sherlock’s arse.

 

“Perhaps you could help to ensure that I reach my hotel safely. We could have a drink in my room.”

 

“A drink? That sounds nice. I have never been to the Wellington Suite in The Dorchester,” Sherlock said. “I am free now and…”

 

John snapped. And he started to emit waves of Alpha pheromones, marking anything in the vicinity as _his_ territory which any encroaching Alphas would be dealt with… permanently. The man started to sniff the air and he almost fell to his knees in fear when he spotted John glowering beside Sherlock. Without a second look, he got into the cab and asked the driver to leave quickly.

 

“That’s rude,” Sherlock said, seemingly unaware of the volatile exchange between the two Alphas just now.

 

"I think it is time for us to call it a day,” John said firmly as he guided Sherlock off the street. They would return to their Baker Street flat and John was going to have a shower first. Then they would eat their dinner which they didn’t get to eat at the Italian restaurant as Sherlock went into pursuit of the cab. And then they would have a talk. A very long talk on Sherlock’s lack of self-preservation like following a stranger into a hotel room. He was sure that the two MI5 agents tailing Sherlock must be thanking their lucky stars that nothing happened to Mycroft’s precious brother during the mad chase in pursuit of a potential suspect.

 

 

\----------

 

 

“I know it is a long shot,” Sherlock sighed as he flopped onto his armchair. “I have a feeling that I have missed something. Something important. Something that is staring right at me.”

 

“You sit there, Sherlock,” John said sternly. “We need to talk after I took a bath.” He was embarrassingly hard after the showdown with the Alpha American tourist. He needed some private time to deal with his condition.

 

“Whatever,” Sherlock muttered. He knew John was upset but that was unimportant. The important thing now was to solve the case. He had missed something crucial. His eyes rested on the luggage tag which was tied to the latest’s victims pink suitcase.

 

“Oh…” Sherlock said as he scrambled to the suitcase. An e-mail address was written on the luggage tag.

 

 

**jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk**

 

 

He remembered the victim had scribbled the word ‘RACHE’ before she died. According to the text message he received from Lestrade, the word ‘RACHE’ could possibly refer to Rachel, the stillborn daughter of the victim who died fourteen years ago. The victim had scratched the name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It must have hurt. The victim didn’t have a laptop which meant that she did her business on a phone, an e-mail enabled Smartphone with GPS. A missing phone which wasn’t found in the luggage or on the body of the victim. The victim wouldn’t have left it at her home as she was a serial adulterer. Sherlock’s eyes lit up. The victim was clever. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She had planted the phone with the killer in the hope that it would lead the police to her killer.

 

Sherlock rushed to the laptop at the table and pulled up Mephone’s website and typed the e-mail address into the ‘User Name’ box and the word RACHEL into the ‘Password’ box. The smartphone probably had a GPS which meant the victim would be able to locate if it were lost. Since she had planted the phone with the killer, the location of the phone would have led him directly to her killer. Clever, clever girl.

 

Sherlock waited impatiently as the map appeared and zoomed in on the location of the phone on the computer screen. To his surprise, the location of the phone was at 221 Baker Street.

 

 _Here?_ Impossible, Sherlock spluttered.

 

How could the phone be here? He had checked the suitcase thoroughly and there was no sign of the phone.

 

“Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi is here, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson popped into the living room, irritated that Sherlock had selective hearing again when he was thinking. “I didn’t order a cab. Go away!” Sherlock said rudely, waving Mrs Hudson off. How could he be wrong? There must be something he had missed, Sherlock though as he started to pace the room agitatedly. He reached the living room window and his eyes wandered down and saw the cabbie standing in front of the taxi, looking up at the window at 221B Baker Street. The cabbie looked vaguely familiar. Wait a minute, a cabbie?

 

 

Whom do we trust, even if we don’t know them?

Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?

Who hunts in the middle of the crowd?

 

 

A moment later, Sherlock’s phone trilled a text alert. Sherlock looked at the message which simply read, “COME WITH ME”.

 

“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said as he picked up his coat and scarf. “Tell John I need to get some fresh air. The taxi is waiting for me. The location is on the computer.”

 

 

\-----------

 

 

A taxi was parked at the kerb and the driver whom Sherlock had seen earlier during his mad dash in pursuit of the cab, leant casually against the side of the cab.

 

“Taxi for Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“I didn’t order a taxi.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

 

“You’re the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not the American passenger.”

 

“See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It is like you’re invisible. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

 

Sherlock took a few steps forward and looked up towards the windows of his flat. John would still be wanking John Junior and thought he had managed to hide from Sherlock what he was doing in the bathroom. Alphas and their trigger-happy friend on their lower part of the body.

 

“Is this a confession?”

 

“Oh, yeah. If you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise. But you won’t do it.”

 

“Why?”

 

"I didn’t kill those four people, Mr Holmes. I spoke to them… and they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing,” the cabbie leant forward. “I will never tell what I said to those four people."

 

Sherlock started at the cabbie. After a moment, the cabbie straightened up and started to walk to the front of the cab.

 

“No one else will die, though. I believe they call that a result,” Sherlock said finally.

 

The cabbie stopped and turned back towards Sherlock.

 

“But you would never understand how those people died. This is the only kind of result you care about.”

 

The cabbie turned again and went to the driver’s door. He opened the door and got into the cab and ignored Sherlock.

 

Biting his lip, Sherlock walked closer to the cab, looking up again at the flat’s windows. Sherlock bent and looked into the open side window of the cab.

 

“If I want to understand, what would I need to do?”

 

“Let me take you for a ride.”

 

“So you can kill me too?”

 

“I don’t want to kill you, Mr Holmes. I am going to talk to you and then you are going to kill yourself.”

 

Sherlock straightened up. A wild child, Mycroft had called him. Impatient and reckless, always rushing headlong into situations without a thought of consequences. The dark thrills of danger called to Sherlock like sirens that lured sailors to their death with a bewitching song. Sherlock’s eyes were lost in thought as he considered the situation. The cabbie smiled in satisfaction as the rear door opened. The cab dipped as Sherlock got in and then the door slammed shut.

 

 

\-----------

 

 

Inside the bathroom, John was wanking Big John desperately and trying to keep his voice down. After running an obstacle course in an attempt to find a serial killer and dominating another Alpha into leaving Sherlock alone, John’s adrenaline was at an all-time high since he returned to London. This unfortunately led to a… biological response. With a sigh of relief, his cock finally succumbed to his hard and desperate wanking and ejaculated. He turned on the shower knob. Although Sherlock was a Beta and unlikely to smell the strong Alpha pheromones in the air, he would rather wash it off. Before he stepped out of the bathroom, John made sure that he used the room spray to cover any remnant smell of cum and that he had cleaned the bathroom thoroughly. If Sherlock knew John had actually got hard from the run and the confrontation with another Alpha, he would probably use that as an example to illustrate the inferiority of the Alpha species in human evolution. Sherlock was a true-blue sexist.

 

“Sherlock? We need to have our dinner…” John said.

 

No sign of Sherlock. Where did that dratted child go? He told him to wait for him.

 

“He ordered a taxi and has just left. Said he needed some air,” Mrs Hudson said.

 

Needed some air? He would squeeze the air out of that pretty neck if Sherlock went out without telling him. John dropped the towel which he was using to dry his hair and walked over to the window. He was in time to see Sherlock climbing into the cab which then moved off. John squinted at the number plate of the cab. It was the same cab that they had stopped earlier. Something was very wrong and John felt a premonition that Sherlock had just walked into a trap.

 

“Sherlock mentioned that the location where he is going can be found on the computer,” Mrs Hudson said, pointing to the laptop which showed a moving blinking dot.

 

John grabbed the laptop and ran to his bedroom. He opened up a drawer and took out a Sig Sauer, courtesy of Mycroft who insisted that he carried with him. John had declared that he would not be Sherlock’s babysitter but he felt no shame in accepting the gun from Mycroft which was completely restricted from private ownership in the United Kingdom. He had felt naked and exposed ever since he returned to London without a gun in his possession. He would not cut his nose to spite his face to turn down the opportunity to carry it with papers which would allow him to legally own and use the gun. He tried not to think too much of the implications of having the gun in his possession again. He would once again be working under Mycroft with the license to kill. John held the gun lovingly in his hand, the familiar weight in his hand was reassuring. It was like reuniting with a long lost friend and all tension seeped out of him. He had a mission now. A mission to extradite Sherlock from whatever trouble he got himself into. And after that, he would seriously consider putting Sherlock over his knee for a good old-fashioned spanking.

 

 

\--------

 

 

**Classroom in Roland Kerr College Blk B**

 

It was ingenious, Sherlock thought as he listened to the cabbie describing his plan about how he managed to persuade the four victims to take poison on their own. He was capitalising on the innate human nature to survive. Given a choice of certain death or a fifty-fifty chance of survival, a human would inevitably choose the fifty-fifty chance of survival. Now that he knew the method how the murders were committed, he had no further interest in the case or the cabbie or playing the cabbie’s game. He was more interested in knowing the identity of his admirer and the sponsor for the serial killings which the cabbie had mentioned.

 

“Come on, play the game,” the cabbie cajoled.

 

He had been given specific instructions by his sponsor not to harm Sherlock in any way. But it wouldn’t be cheating if Sherlock chose to play the game, right? The death of Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be counted to his body count but he wanted to see the Great Sherlock Holmes brought low. He could tell that detective opposite him had lost interest on how he committed the case and he was irritated by it. All those posh types were the same, looking down on him as if he were insignificant. His sponsor had thought he was stupid too, but he knew a junkie for excitement when he saw one. He knew how to push Sherlock over the edge.

 

Slowly, Sherlock walked towards the cabbie. When he got to the table, he reached out and picked up the bottle nearest to the man, then walked past him. The cabbie looked down at the other bottle but his voice gave nothing away when he spoke.

 

“Oh… interesting,” the cabbie said. He picked up the other bottle when Sherlock looked down at the bottle in his own hand. He then opened his bottle and tipped the capsule out into his hand. He held it up and looked at it closely when Sherlock examined his own bottle.

 

“So what do you think?” the cabbie said. He looked up at Sherlock slyly. “Shall we? Really, what do you think?”

 

The cabbie stood up and faced Sherlock.

 

“Can you beat me?” the cabbie whispered, excitement glittering in his eyes. “Are you clever enough to bet your life?”

 

The cabbie held up his pill as he looked at Sherlock.

 

“I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you…”, the cabbie continued, like a serpent tempting Eve into eating the fruit from the forbidden tree.

 

Sherlock unscrewed the lid of the bottle.

 

“…so clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?”

 

Sherlock took out the capsule and held it between his thumb and finger, raising it to the light to examine it more closely. He couldn’t help it. He needed to know. And the thought of betting his life to know the answer sent thrills of dark pleasures down his spine. He was on a high and almost unconsciously he started to pant slightly as he licked his lips.

 

“Still the addict,” the cabbie crooned.

 

Slowly, Sherlock lowered the pill again, holding it at eye level and gazing at it.

 

“But this… this is what you’re really addicted to, is it?”

 

Sherlock held the pill in his fingers and stared at it, hypnotised by the sight of it. “You’d do anything… anything at all…” Sherlock’s fingers began to tremble with excitement and anticipation. “…to stop being bored.”

 

Slowly, in a trance, Sherlock began to move the pill closer to his mouth.

 

The cabbie matched the movement with his own pill.

 

“You’re not bored now, are you?”

 

 

\----------

 

 

**Outside Roland-Kerr-College**

 

With the help of the GPS, John managed to track down and narrow Sherlock’s whereabouts to two identical buildings in front of him. The map wasn’t precise enough to indicate where Sherlock was. John looked around him, trying to see if he could locate the two MI5 agents who were supposed to be tailing Sherlock. He made a mental note to tell Mycroft that his agents needed a lot more intensive training. How difficult was it to tail a taxi? It was basic 101. He had heard rumours in the grapevine that MI5 was finding it difficult to recruit agents. Apparently, serving the Queen and Country was considered so last century. Nowadays, people wanted to be bankers or stock analysts. The compensation package was a lot better. But surely the standards of MI5 couldn’t have dropped that drastically?

 

 

\--------

 

**Elsewhere**

 

MI5 Agent 1: Shit! Punctured tyre.

 

MI5 Agent 2: I don’t know how to change a tyre!

 

MI5 Agent 1: Go check the spy manual. Surely it is there.

 

MI5 Agent 2 flipped through the 10,000 page manual.

 

MI5 Agent 2 (panicking): There is this section that deals with the dismantling of car bombs. But I can’t find anything about changing the tyre! Oh shit, shit, shit! We are so screwed. We’ll be crucified if we lose Mr Sherlock Holmes. (Images of being used as guinea pigs for the newly recruited Torturers started to appear in his mind.)

 

MI5 Agent 1 grabbed his handphone and started to dial a number.

 

MI5 Agent 1: Mayday! Mayday! We’ve lost our target codename ‘Midget’. I repeat. Mayday! Mayday!

 

MI5 Agent 2 took out his MI5-issued pen and notebook from his jacket and started to write his last will and testament. He should have listened to his mother and become a banker.

 

 

\----------

 

 

**Roland-Kerr-College Blk A**

 

After a moment, John made his choice and headed towards Building A. He ran through the corridors, running from door to door, trying them and peering in through the windows. Failing to find any signs of Sherlock on the first floor, John raced up a flight of stairs and continued his search.

 

John burst through the first door on the second floor and finally found what he was looking for. In the opposite building. Too far away to be of help. Without any hesitation, John drew out his gun and took aim.

 

 

\---------

 

 

**Classroom in Roland-Kerr-College Blk B**

 

Sherlock was in a trance. It was so delicious. He could hear the pounding of his heart and blood rushing to his brain. Betting with your life as the ultimate forfeit. He slowly put the pill towards his mouth…

 

An unexpected gunshot rang out and a bullet impacted the cabbie’s chest and went through his body. Startled, Sherlock dropped his pill in surprise. He turned and hurried to the window, staring through the bullet hole in the glass. The window of the classroom in the opposite building was open but there was nobody in sight. Sherlock then turned back, looking around the room and saw one of the pills lying on the desk as the cabbie convulsed on the floor.

 

“Was I right?” Sherlock demanded, not caring that the old man was wounded. He knelt down and brandished the pill at the cabbie. "I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right?”

 

The cabbie refused to reply and Sherlock, in a fit of anger, hurled the pill across the room and stood up.

 

“Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one, who told you about me; my ‘fan’. I want a name.”

 

“No,” the cabbie said weakly.

 

“You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me a name.”

 

The cabbie shook his head. Grimacing angrily, Sherlock lifted his foot and stepped on the cabbie’s shoulder.

 

The cabbie started to gasp in pain.

 

“A name. Now.”

 

The cabbie only whined in pain.

 

His face intense and manic, Sherlock started to grind his foot maliciously against the cabbie’s shoulder.

 

“The NAME!” Sherlock shouted furiously.

 

“MORIARTY!” the cabbie screamed. He stiffened and then went limp. Sherlock stared at the dead body of the cabbie. After a few seconds, he silently mouthed the word ‘Moriarty’ to himself. A slow small, dreamlike smile started to creep in. The cabbie was right. He was _not_ bored now.

 

 

\------

 

 

**Outside Roland-Kerr-College Blk B**

 

Sherlock was finally released by D.I. Lestrade after the medics had checked Sherlock and ascertained that he wasn’t hurt. He was finally allowed to leave when he caught sight of an unsmiling John standing casually by the side of a police car.

 

“Food. Then we need a talk. A very long talk," John said in a tight tone and grabbed Sherlock’s left arm.

 

 

________

 

 

A few yards away, Mycroft looked on as Sherlock, held on tightly by John, left the crime scene. Behind him, two nervous MI5 agents hovered anxiously, not sure of their fate.

 

“You two…” Mycroft finally turned and looked sternly at the two MI5 agents, “will be send to attend an intensive remedial course. If you fail the test at the end of the course, both of you will be re-assigned to MI6. They have plenty of one-way-journey missions for people willing to die for their country.”

 

Mycroft almost had a heart attack when he received the Mayday alert. Sometimes his little brother shook off the agents following him; especially if he wanted to do something that he knew Mycroft wouldn’t approve. Mycroft shook his head. He did not know why Sherlock would even bothered to do that since Mycroft would eventually figure out what his little brother was up to. Perhaps he had been too lax in Sherlock’s upbringing when he was a small child. He couldn’t even bear to raise his voice at Sherlock without being confronted with an accusing kicked puppy’s eye look which would make him forget any punishment he planned to dish out for Sherlock’s misbehaviour. Sherlock was a truly sweet child and would listen to reason most of the time. But the few times he refused to listen to had resulted in several mishaps ranging from a near drowning to a broken leg. If he had been a lot tougher with Sherlock when he was younger, like administering an old fashioned spanking to bring home the point that it was not alright to endanger oneself in pursuing whatever truth Sherlock wanted to know, he wouldn’t have so much trouble reining in his younger brother’s wild streak now.

 

Mycroft gave a small secret and almost pitying smile. Judging from John Watson’s stormy face, he had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t be able to walk straight the next day. Sherlock had made a big mistake not asking for Dr John Watson’s personal file. There was a crucial piece of information Sherlock would never be able to deduce since he was a virgin and so-not-interested in sex. Dr John Watson was a Dom, known professionally in some very exclusive circles as ‘The Doctor’.

 

\-----

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kick me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MI5 Agent 1 and MI5 Agent 2 (in unison): Our mistress, PeachTart, would like to thank all for the kudos and comments. 
> 
> I actually was undecided what to call John's lower part 'friend' wavering between two names. In the end, John's 'friend' has two names.
> 
> Sherlock call it 'John Junior'.  
> John call it 'Big John'.
> 
> Different perception of size....giggle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never insult the Alphahood of an Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the warning. The Explicit rating is there for a reason. There is nothing bad in this chapter except some old fashioned medicine. But there are some bad, bad stuff in the subsequent chapters.

A very big thank you to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) for helping to beta read this chapter.

 

 

_I have a mind to turn you over my knee and spank the spoiled hell out of you_

 

Larissa Ione, _Sin Undone_

 

* * *

 

**221B Baker Street, Living Room**

 

This was getting ridiculous, Sherlock thought as he washed his hair. His flatmate, John, was actually waiting outside the bathroom waiting for him to finish his bath. Actually, it was more like ensuring that he wouldn't leave the flat to investigate another case. It was really an over-reaction. He was going to bed after his bath. Scout’s honour. He had had the most uncomfortable dinner at his favourite Chinese restaurant earlier. His flatmate literally stared at him until he finished every scrap of food, including the last grain of rice from the bowl. This was a record since he had a small appetite and could never finish a full portion of any meal served to him. If he had been less gentlemanly, Sherlock thought sourly, John would have insisted that he leave the bathroom door open while he bathed so that he could keep a personal watch on him.

 

“There! I am done,” Sherlock yawned as he opened the bathroom door.

 

“Sit. We need to talk,” John said unsmilingly, pointing to Sherlock’s armchair in the living room.

 

“Now? Could we talk tomorrow? It is late.”

 

“Yes, NOW.”

 

John brought his armchair and placed it opposite the armchair Sherlock was sitting in. He sat down and their knees were so close that they almost touched each other.

 

“What do you want to talk about?” Sherlock demanded crossly, folding his arms.

 

“Let’s start right from the beginning. Our first meeting. Coincidence?”

 

“No,” Sherlock admitted. He then put up his hand when John opened his mouth.“I only asked my brother Mycroft to look for some suitable Alpha flatmates who wouldn’t mind helping out with my cases occasionally. Isn’t that what brothers do? Look out for each other? He presented me with a list of people whom he thought would be suitable.”

 

“So you read my file?” John said silkily. “And I am the lucky candidate?”

 

“No,” Sherlock replied. “Other than my specific requirements, I really didn’t care who the person is or his life history since the day he was born. I could deduce it for myself. If you are interested to know, I asked Anthea to give me the photographs of all potential flatmates and I picked you randomly. I rather advertise online but I didn’t want any potential flatmate to be chased off by Mycroft. I met up with you and offered you to be my flatmate. You are free to reject my offer and walk off and I’ll simply pick another person and work through the list until a person agrees. London is an expensive place to stay and there are plenty of people willing to share a flat.”

 

John gave Sherlock a long hard look. There was a small sense of relief. He was glad that Sherlock was honest with him and relieved that Sherlock did not know every aspect of his life from a file. Sherlock could have read the file if he wanted and the personal files kept by Mycroft were very detailed. At least, Sherlock had respected the boundary of privacy.

 

“So your deductions are really deductions.”

 

“Of course, they are deductions. I am not blind!” Sherlock said, offended by John’s implied accusation that he had read his personal file. Just because the information that could be obtained was neatly wrapped up and summarised in a file, there was no fun taking the easy way out. And knowing the standards of the British Secret Service, he had little hopes that the file contained anything but the barest essential information.

 

“But…” Sherlock said, looking speculatively at John, “I may need to revise my deductions. I didn’t expect my brother to put you on the list. On surface, you are a veteran from Afghanistan. Taken out because of a serious injury at war. But if one cares to think deeper, there are several red flags. As a medical doctor in Afghanistan, you don’t leave the secured military base as your work is supposedly carried out in the hospital. You could be injured if the base was overrun with insurgents. Six months ago, a base was overrun by insurgents. Four killed and two injured. Your name isn’t on the injured list. As a medical doctor, you would have to run the base and nobody would scrutinise your movements too closely as long as you turn up at the hospital regularly to perform your duties. A perfect cover… to carry out covert intelligence operations. It’d be easy for you to slip in and out of the base with none the wiser. But…” Sherlock leant over and stared into John’s eyes. “Your eyes. It is clear to me now. Your PTSD has knocked you out of sync right? You find it difficult to hide your darker side from the rest of the world, something you would do easily in the past before your injury. Mycroft is always careful… not to involve me in certain aspects of his life. So it is as big a surprise to me that you are in my list."

 

“I resigned,” John said. “Probably the reason I made it to your short list.”

 

“Resigned?” Sherlock said sardonically. “I think a more appropriate term is ‘long term no pay leave’. We both know that no one really leaves MI6, especially agents Mycroft knows personally. You know, Lestrade would be really interested who is the gunman who shot the cab driver. The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. Fatal shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence.” Leaning over, Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “That little thing in your coat when you picked me up. Private ownership is illegal unless it is under very special circumstances. Have you truly resigned or have you gone freelance?”

 

“So that is your deduction? I have gone freelance and perhaps your brother has made a mistake? Despite the Beta Sanctuary, there are still parties willing to look the other way if they knew they could get away with it. Killing the brother of Mycroft Holmes would be a coup.”

 

Sherlock sighed. Ah, an assassination, he thought wistfully. To kill Sherlock Holmes and make it look like an accident. Pity no one had dared to try that. Sometimes the Beta Sanctuary could make life so boring.

 

“I am afraid you have not gone… freelance. Now back to the shooter earlier. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger. So strong moral principle.” Sherlock gave another sigh. Life would be a lot more interesting if John were freelancing for the other side. “Which is why you are so STUPID. You should have accepted the money from Mycroft. You could have scammed the money off him and paid for your share of flat with spare change. Most of the time, we would be out of each other’s hair. You’re doing your boring job as a doctor trying not to kill your patients while I am in the kitchen or Bart’s doing experiments. Interesting cases worth my while do not come up that often and you only need to turn up once in a while to help out with a crime scene. And I know you’d enjoy them and would even volunteer without a friendly probe from my brother. You miss the war. You miss the excitement… you should have… Alpha… blah, blah, blah…”

 

John listened to Sherlock as he went on and on how stupid he was for not accepting money from Mycroft. He put a stop to Sherlock’s litany once he heard the word ‘Alpha’. He really didn’t want to hear the list of shortcomings of his gender. He had only known Sherlock for less than two days and he felt positively discriminated for being an Alpha.

 

“Stop. You are not turning this conversation of your irrational prejudice against Alphas. What I really want to discuss now is your actions earlier. Your complete… lack of self-preservation.“

 

“What aspects of my actions you want to discuss? There’s nothing to talk about since you have declared you would not be spying on me.”

 

“You were going to take that damned pill, weren’t you?”

 

“Of course, I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

 

“No you didn’t. It is how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

 

“There speaks the ultimate excitement junkie,” Sherlock laughed mirthlessly, “someone who actually risked his life serving Queen and Country.” Sherlock stopped and then drawled out his words slowly. “You know who has the true power in this country. Not those politicians which the general population thinks they elect every four years. Why do you care whether I take the pill or not? After all, I am from the social class which you despised and probably the true reason why you resigned. The social class which is responsible for the death of someone... close to you... a friend? …perhaps a lover?”

 

“DON’T. TEMPT. ME.” John caught Sherlock’s left wrist and pulled Sherlock towards him. “We are talking about your actions but since you like to turn the conversation about me, perhaps I can share something that your brilliant mind cannot deduce. Like how your actions can annoy Alphas. And I happened to be one of the inferior Alphas you thought so lowly of. That Sergeant at the crime scene shared something interesting with me earlier.”

 

“That I am a psychopath?” Sherlock made no attempt to free his hand. “She is wrong, as usual. I am a high functioning sociopath.”

 

“I don’t care whether you are a psychopath or a sociopath,” John said in a biting tone. “But what I am interested is that she said you drove everyone around you… crazy. You like to tempt… people around you into dark violence. There is a dark, sadistic streak in every one of us. At the crime scene with the dead Omega. You are not enjoying the puzzle of solving a crime. You are actually have a… sexual high from it… and you don’t care who else is in the room with you, even if there is an Alpha who could lose his mind to his... biological impulses.”

 

“So? Some people like the smell of flowers. I happen to like the smell of freshly dead Omegas,” Sherlock said defensively. “It’s not as if I’m engaging in necrophilia.” He knew it made people around him uncomfortable that he actually had a high from the smell. “So what if the sweet smell of a freshly dead Omega TURNS… ME… ON?” He started to wet his lips and his breathing became quicker. If he could bottle the smell of death, he would do so. Especially those who died unnaturally through murder or suicide. The scent they emitted was especially sweet and sticky that it would cling on the living, the dead swallowing the living alive.

 

“STOP IT!” John snapped and his hand tightened on Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock was lucky that he was a Beta. If he were an Omega, he would be thrown to the floor and fucked senseless. As a former MI6 agent, John was trained to withstand the pheromones emitted by an Omega but even he was not sure if his training would help if Sherlock was an Omega. But even though Sherlock was no tantalising Omega, Alphas would simply snapped at the sight of Sherlock having a sexual high in public, in front of a corpse.

 

“You are playing with fire,” John said as he watched Sherlock to bring his breathing under control. “Do you not have any sense of self-preservation? Even as a Beta… you can be… assaulted. Not all Alphas have control over their… baser instincts. That American tourist… he should be very angry, right? Stopped in the middle of the street. But you calmed him down. You knew he was interested in you and you capitalised on it… allowing him to touch you and promising favours in his hotel room.”

 

“Pardon me! I am helping Lestrade to not get a complaint from that American tourist for stopping him illegally. I’ve never been to the Wellington Suite in the Dorchester and I have wanted to check the layout of that suite for one of my other cases.”

 

 _The infuriating child has no concerns of his own safety_ , John thought. Didn’t Mycroft teach his baby brother anything?

 

With the new developments in gender science, the number of assaults against a Beta had outnumbered the number of assaults against an Omega. With the Omega Liberal Movement, there were more Omegas in the public and even in the work force. But many Omegas still feared walking alone without an Alpha family member. Many, who worked in the public, relied on a combination of O-Heat and Beta Serum which not only suppressed their heat cycles but also their natural Omega scent. What made it so controversial was that when taken together, O-Heat and Beta Serum actually turned an Omega into a Beta in every sense. Even a blood test would reveal the Omega as a Beta. Only a detailed MRI test could tell the difference between a Beta and an Omega who had taken the O-Heat and Beta Serum. It would reveal that the ovaries of an Omega were much more developed than those of a Beta. Under the legal law, the Omega could declare his or her gender as Beta during the duration the medication was taken. But even with the layers of protection given to the modern-day Omega, an Omega was smart enough not to draw attention to their gender and hide their Omega attributes. There were even classes conducted by the Omega Protection Association to teach Omegas how to hide their attributes and to act like a Beta in public.

 

With the Cornelia White Act and the medical advances on Omega biology, it was much safer for an Omega than a Beta to walk in the open street. The Omega population was smart enough to take precautions. The Beta population, comfortable with its position as the ‘ignored majority’, was not aware of the modern dangers posed to them, especially Betas with pronounced Omega attributes. Omegas, given their long persecuted history, were wary and had taken every reasonable protection to protect themselves. The Betas, on the other hand, thought they were safe from the Alphas’s biological instincts and had taken less precaution. Betas who had Omega attributes were sought by both Alphas (who had little chance of getting a true Omega mate given the small number of the Omega population) and Betas. The fashion and film industries were filled with Betas who had Omega attributes. And this had the effect of many Betas to start enhancing their Omega attributes. A new industry was born with products helping Betas to look and even smell like Omegas. The true scent of Omegas couldn’t be duplicated in the laboratories but there were synthetics that came close to mimicking the true scent of Omegas. One such product was called “The Siren”. One tiny squirt would allow the wearer to emit an irresistible scent to Alphas. The effect would only last for three hours and came with a hefty price tag of 5000 pounds for 5ml. Despite the hefty price tag, demand outstripped supply and on the booming black market, the price could go as high as 10,000 pounds.

 

Scientists had speculated that some of the Betas who had pronounced Omega attributes were actually latent Omegas which for some reason had turned into a Beta in the womb. There were rumours of illegal experiments conducted on Betas to transform them into Omegas. This was dismissed as an urban legend until the cracking of an extreme Alpha Supremacy Group which had abducted several Betas for illegal experiments. None of the abductees survived and several of them had a painful lingering death, shot up with a cocktail of illegal drugs hoping to transform their gender. There was no real scientific proof that some Betas could be latent Omegas. However, several Alphas, desperate for an Omega mate, had started to turn their attention to Betas with Omega attributes and some Alphas believed that they could literally turn a Beta into an Omega by fucking them. Rapes involving Beta victims had hit a high in the recent years.

 

With the new fad in enhancing the Omega attributes and the new industry that sprung up to support it, a Beta could look more like an Omega than the real Omega standing beside him. The Omega population had sought to use advances in Omega science to hide their Omega attributes, all too aware from that long persecuted history that desire for them could turn them to prisoners any time. The majority of the Beta population was blissfully unaware of the ramifications. Their freedom and safety they had taken for granted had been eroding the last few decades. Even the sky high number of rape victims involving Beta victims didn’t seem to worry the majority of the Beta population. The infuriating child in front of him, obviously belonged to the Beta who believed I-am-Beta-therefore-I-am-safe group.

 

“Has your Alpha brother Mycroft not taught you anything? Just because you are a Beta doesn’t mean that you cannot be violated,” John said as he forced Sherlock’s hand to rub the burgeoning erection threatening to burst out of his trousers. “Pretty Betas like you shouldn’t tempt Alphas with favours and follow them into hotel rooms. As you have pointed out, Alphas like me have no self-restraint. There’s nothing to stop me from throwing you on the ground and take what I want now. There are no cameras in this flat. By the time your big brother Mycroft realised that something is wrong, I would already have taken my fill of you.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened momentarily as his hand came into the contact of John’s erection. There was only one tiny layer of fabric between his hand and John’s cock and he could feel it straining to be released from its clothed prison. The heat radiating from it almost seared his hand.

 

“Oh, I see. Having trouble controlling John Junior again? I thought you gave him a good wanking earlier?”

 

“That is Big John,” John snapped. He could hardly believe that Sherlock was leading him on.

 

“Big John? Someone is having a size complex,” Sherlock sniffed.

 

 _What an aggravating child_ , John thought exasperatedly. No wonder Mycroft wanted a keeper for his baby brother. Not even once was Sherlock feeling contrite over his actions, he also proceeded to insult the Alphahood of an Alpha.

 

“Hey! What are you doing?” Sherlock gave a startled yelp when John pulled him up.

 

John dragged him to the long couch next to the wall of the living room. With one leg, he kicked the coffee table away. Sherlock found himself held down by John’s right leg and was unceremoniously thrown face down across his left knee.

 

“Let me up, you oaf!” Sherlock struggled but John was immovable, holding him down easily with no effort. For the first time, he felt the gender difference in strength. He would be stuck in this humiliating position as long as John wanted him to stay. “Just because you have a size complex…”

 

John ignored Sherlock’s indignant protests and lifted his right knee to raise Sherlock’s tantalising bottom, which was squirming so delightfully, and make it more accessible. He placed his left hand on Sherlock’s waist with his left elbow between the shoulder blades for a better grip.

 

 _No_ , Sherlock thought as he renewed his struggles twice fold. John wouldn’t be doing what he thought John would be doing. How dare he!

 

He pulled Sherlock’s silk pyjama bottoms down, exposing the pale globes of his arse.

 

“Since you insisted to be a naughty child, I am going to spank you like the child that you are,” John said. He laid his palm lovingly against the firm swell and took it a moment to smooth it gently over the skin. “I wonder whether you have ever been spanked for anything. Somehow I doubt it.”

 

“Release me at once or else…” Sherlock demanded. He felt the hand leave his bottom and feared he knew what would come next. He was right.

 

“You have forgotten one little thing. There is one thing which is an evolutionary advantage we Alphas have. Betas and Omegas cannot match our physical strength, especially when we lose our rational thoughts.” Now John started to apply stinging smacks onto Sherlock’s bottom while Sherlock squirmed trying to avoid the blows.

 

*SMACK!*

 

“This is for allowing that American tourist to touch you and accepting his invitation to go to his hotel room.”

 

“OUCH!” Sherlock cried out, mortified at being spanked on his bare bottom like a small child.

 

*SMACK!*

 

“This is for running off to go after the cabbie after I specifically told you to stay in the flat.”

 

“OUCH! Stop this INSTANT!” Sherlock cried, he could feel his face turning red. No one, not even Mycroft, had ever laid a hand on him. “You are not my boyfriend nor my guardian!”

 

*SMACK!*

 

“This is for the Russian roulette game you played with the killer.”

 

“This is for being a sexist.”

 

“This is for tempting and baiting Alphas.”

 

Sherlock whimpered and gasped as the spanking continued relentlessly and John read out a litany of his crimes and transgressions. His eyes started to water at the stinging smacks. To his utter chagrin, he felt his own cock getting hard from the spanking. Somehow his body was enjoying this, his punishment, his helplessness. At the back of his mind, his mind was working vigorously at the new data, analysing the new experience he had never experienced, a mix of humiliation, shame and excitement. He was painfully hard and each time John’s large hand hit his bottom, his swollen cock rubbed deliciously against the soft fabric of John’s trousers. The traitorous little Sherlock residing at the back of Sherlock’s mind had started to take his cock out and masturbate.

 

“Spread your legs,” John ordered. He raised his knee higher so that he could gain better access to the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. He started to run his finger across the inner thighs. “You have been a very naughty boy. I think this is something that has been missing in your education so far. Mycroft is way too lenient with you. Tell me, have you been punished like this before? If I were Mycroft, I would spank you like this every time you misbehaved. Spare and rod and spoil the child. You are nothing but a spoiled little child who deserves to have his bottom glowing red for misbehaving. Spread your legs NOW!”

 

Almost against his will, Sherlock started to spread his legs slowly. His face grew hot as he was completely revealed to John and showed the shame of his achingly hard erection. He held on to his pride and refused to beg for mercy, although he couldn’t prevent the whimpers escaping from his mouth.

 

It had been a long time since John had the pleasure of disciplining anyone. He watched in admiration the pale smooth skin turning a fetching pink rose colour under the white skin. It was like milk and honey poured over rose petals. In the past, there had been people begging for his brand of discipline. Not many could afford his price, though, and his clients came from the most exclusive circles, something which was useful in his previous line of work. It was difficult for his clients to concentrate while they were tied to their beds while ‘The Doctor’ administered his brand of medication for misbehaviour. He thought he had retired ‘The Doctor’ which had belonged to another lifetime. For Sherlock alone, ‘The Doctor’ came out of his retirement.

 

“Are you sorry?” John gave a flourish of hard smacks to the tempting bottom which had turned hot and red under his palm.

 

*SMACK!*

 

*SMACK!*

 

*SMACK!*

 

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock couldn’t stop the tears which now flowed freely out of his eyes.

 

Sensing that Sherlock was about to break, John stopped the spanking. His hands started to smooth across the skin on Sherlock’s inner thighs which were shivering uncontrollably from the pain and the strain of holding them apart. His fingers started to tease Sherlock’s balls with his fingertips.

 

Sherlock started to moan softly and began to rub himself desperately against John’s lap and promptly earned himself another painful slap on his bottom. His cock jerked and left a telltale damp spot on John’s lap.

 

“Say you are sorry,” John said.

 

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent and earned a new flurry of smacks on his bottom.

 

“Say you are SORRY!” John stopped the spanking and his fingers started to tease Sherlock’s balls with his fingertips.

 

Sherlock could barely think straight anymore. He gave a small moan and finally gave in. “I am… sorry,” he whimpered.

 

“What are you sorry for?” John asked as he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, pumping his hand up and down in a slow, steady motion. He started to increase the speed incrementally, giving the head of the cock a light squeeze every now and then.

 

“I… I…” Sherlock gave a moan of frustration as the strokes applied by John were firm enough to give him great pleasure but not firm enough to bring him to orgasm. The relentless wave of pleasure and stimulation drove him crazy. His cock had started to leak a steady stream of pre-cum. His eyes were dilated and his heart rate increased. He started to breathe rapidly and his muscles tensed up. His brilliant mind screeched to a stop and the only thing that mattered to him now was to reach orgasm which the cruel hand on his cock was denying him. It had full control over him. Every time he was about to reach orgasm, the hand would slow down. But just before his arousal dropped, John’s hand would speed up the pumping and then denying him orgasm again. Again and again and again.

 

“I can’t hear you. What are you sorry for?” John coaxed. “Just tell me what you are sorry for and I’ll let you have your reward.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes were glazed with the need for release. His mind had overheated and simply shut down.

 

“For… for… endangering myself,” his scrambled mind finally found the correct words before his mind completely closed off.

 

“That’s a good boy,” John said, now applying firm strokes which finally brought Sherlock over the edge.

 

Sherlock’s muscles first tensed then there was a sudden release of tension as he came with a small cry, trying to hide from John that he made managed to make him orgasm so hard like never before. For some reason, he started to weep softly.

 

“After this, perhaps, you will learn that there is more to life than satisfying your selfish desires, running headlong into danger in pursuit of your so-called truth. You need to learn discipline and I will teach it to you. So every time you endanger yourself, I will spank you. Except next time I discipline you, I will expect you to bend over and grasp your ankles with both hands. I will be less gentle the next time as I will use a hairbrush to spank you,” John said as he swept Sherlock off his lap and cradled him to his chest. He caressed the tender skin of his bottom, which he had just punished, and kissed Sherlock’s eyes, which were closed with tears leaking out. He whispered soothingly into Sherlock’s ear. “It is okay now. The punishment is now over. It was for your own good. You shouldn’t be endangering yourself.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kick me out after the x number of times.

 

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtual picture that inspired this chapter:
> 
> John spanking Sherlock
> 
>  
> 
> Constructive criticisms welcomed. cherryblossomtart@gmail.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John and Mycroft analyse the mind blowing handjob.

A very big thank you to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) and [Megabat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat) for helping to beta read this chapter.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Sherlock’s Bedroom**

 

Sherlock woke up slowly, lazily turning over to check the alarm clock on the bedside table, and promptly winced. He flushed when he started to remember what had transpired the previous night. The humiliating spanking, the admittedly amazing orgasm and then the mortifying sobbing against John’s chest. His mind, which he equated to a computer, suffered from an overwhelming overload of conflicting emotions and stimulus last night that caused it to shut down completely. That had never happened to him before. He ran a quick mental check-up and sighed in relief when he realised his brain was back to its normal analytical and efficient self. He took a deep breath, relaxed and opened the door to his Mind Palace. Little Sherlock, who resided there, took out a notebook and a pen, ready to take down instructions regarding what to do with last night’s events.

 

Last night had been a totally new and unexpected experience for him. He should have struggled and despite John’s greater Alpha strength, he should have been able to extricate himself from the humiliating situation. He had been trained in several fighting techniques to be able to circumvent an Alpha’s superior strength. He was an expert in Judo, Aikido, and Karate and even in the obscure martial art of Bartitsu. A skill the Alpha police officer, who had tried to assault him, discovered at his cost. A well-placed kick to a delicate part of the officer’s male anatomy had turned the Alpha into a modern-day eunuch permanently.

 

What had shocked him to helpless compliance was not the manhandling. Running around in London looking for criminals, he had encountered and been involved in his fair share of fights, robberies and even an attempted stabbing (he had to endure three hours of nagging from Mycroft over that incident). Sherlock was well able to protect himself in most situations, with his opponents usually regretting their actions. What shocked him into compliance last night was the spanking and the intimacy of touch. Violence and injury he could understand. Using the intimacy of touch as a form of punishment or reward was a totally new experience for him, something that shook him to the core.

 

He had been raised in a home where there had been little or no physical contact, almost to the point of aversion towards any form of physical contact. As far as he could remember, his father barely looked at him, let alone touched him; after all he was the unwanted Beta son. He only had fragmented memories of his mother and his brother Sherrinford and both of them had disappeared out of his life when he was still a small child. He had spent his entire childhood with Mycroft, who had played the roles of father, mother and older brother. Even though he knew Mycroft had loved him, he was never physically affectionate. While he would give an occasional hug or touch as he checked and adjusted his clothes, Mycroft seemed to have an aversion to touching his little brother’s bare skin. Physical punishment had been unheard of in the Holmes household. Mycroft would never dream of raising his hand at his little brother. Mycroft would shout, he would nag, he would cajole and when Sherlock had been naughty Mycroft would just send him to bed without dessert or make him stand in the corner facing the wall.

 

If the spanking had shocked him, the almost non-consensual handjob, so expertly administered, was like a tsunami of conflicting emotions that was threatening to throw him into a churning ocean. He was familiar with the mechanics of sexual intercourse and its peripheral activities. When he had had his first wet dream, Mycroft had sat him down in the study and explained to him in scientific detail the biological functions of the human body. His tone had been stiff and business-like. He was obviously uncomfortable but determined to continue ‘the TALK’ stoically. Mycroft had also referred several books to him, which would give him a more detailed and in-depth explanation on the biological imperative of humans, and their various genders. At the end of their talk, they had sat on the couch, one metre apart from each other and watched a documentary, which showed the various acts of sexual intercourse. After the thirty-minute documentary had ended, Mycroft bade him to read the books and told him that they would resume the talk one week later for him to ask Mycroft any questions if he had any. Exactly one week later, he returned to the study and thanked Mycroft for the lessons and promised to keep in mind of Mycroft’s offer to engage him a teacher to instruct him the finer points of the actual physical act once he reached legal age of consent. And no, he assured Mycroft that he had no further questions as the comprehensive list of books Mycroft had supplied were more than sufficient to explain sexual relations from both the scientific and philosophical point of views. In fact, he had eagerly explained to Mycroft that after thoroughly researching the subject, he would be perfectly happy to be labelled asexual since he found that the act of reaching orgasm was fairly distasteful as it seemed to impair his ability to think logically, focusing instead on his baser instincts, something that years of human evolution failed to change. That had been the last conversation he had with Mycroft regarding sex. Upon reaching the legal age of consent, he had not approached Mycroft for a teacher and Mycroft to his credit had not brought the subject up either. He deemed the actual act of intercourse, which would involve a stranger touching him intimately, as abhorrent. Theory was good enough for him as reference material. As a young, healthy adult male, it was inevitable that he would have an erection occasionally, which could either be resolved with his own hand or by actual physical interaction with another human being. As sexual contact with another person was totally out of the question, Sherlock had learnt the most efficient way to satisfy his own needs, and over time he had refined the process. Now it took him under a minute to reach orgasm so that he could regain control over all aspects of his body as soon as possible after any hiccup caused by his uncontrollable biological responses. But what John had done yesterday had been extraordinary, continuously stimulating him, building him up by touching and teasing him until he was literally teetering on the edge of release. Again, again and again John had brought him to the point of release only to deny him at the very last moment. The extended period of stimulation had induced a pleasurable, almost euphoric state of mind and altered his consciousness.

 

How could he categorise this particular experience? Should he file it in the library of his Mind Palace for future reference? Throw it into the dustbin like a piece of used tissue, labelled as unimportant and useless? Or place it in the research room where he could study it further? Hmmm... Even though he had not indulged in any acts he deemed as ‘baser human instincts’, he had kept up-to-date with all aspects of human sexual interaction and filed the relevant information in the library. The information had proved to be very useful in his line of work, as sex was a strong motivator in a lot of the cases he was investigating. While he knew the theoretical aspects, his practical experience was lacking. And after last night it looked as though he might have been a bit too hasty in dismissing practical experience as irrelevant in his research. There was only so much that books could teach him after all and it looked like certain aspects of his research needed actual practical experience. Even though he was asexual, there were certain physical needs he could not avoid. He knew quickest and most efficient way to satisfy his body’s baser needs. It was nothing special, just another task like brushing your teeth or washing your hair. But last night’s handjob had been spectacular and his body’s reactions had been so different from what he had experienced at his own hand. Perhaps there was a technique he was unaware of? Last night’s experience might not have been the most efficient or fastest method, but the intense and overwhelming orgasm at the end of the prolonged stimulation made it worthwhile and Sherlock didn’t mind experiencing that again. On a scale from one to ten, he decided that last night should be rated as a nine. With his mind made up, he saved and catalogued his experience and filed it away in the research room in the form of a purple dildo with a post-it note stuck to it that read ‘Further Research and Practical Experience Required’.

 

He was about to exit his Mind Palace when little Sherlock pulled on his pyjama bottoms and pointed soundlessly at the dark shadows at the end of the corridor. His breathing hitched and he felt himself start to panic. Were the monsters there? The Werewolf, the Hanging Woman and the Dancing Puppet? He thought he had imprisoned them in the deepest and darkest dungeon of his mind palace and thrown away the key years ago. But obviously they had refused to stay hidden away. They must have escaped from their prison and now they were haunting the corridors. He knew they would only disappear if he confronted them and conquered his fears. But not today. Sherlock had yet to find the courage to face them. When he felt the fear about to overwhelm him, a comforting presence appeared in the form of a giant teddy bear. His Protector. The teddy bear stayed with him as he walked to the door that would lead him out of the Mind Palace. He looked back before he closed the door and saw the giant teddy bear waving back at him. His protector would prevent the monsters from escaping.

 

Sherlock gave a sigh and opened his eyes, contented that he had filed yesterday’s experience in the appropriate place in his mind. Almost subconsciously, he reached out for the teddy bear he shared his bed with, a replica of the teddy bear that guarded the doors of his Mind Palace against the monsters. They had already escaped from the dungeon he had locked them in. Teddy was now the only thing preventing them from escaping into real life.

 

 

\---

 

 

“OUUCH!” Sherlock winced again as he tried once more to shift into a better position so that his abused backside was not lying flat on the bed. He pulled down his pyjama bottoms and twisted round so that he could see the damage John had inflicted. Brute, Sherlock cursed inwardly as he saw the bruised skin. They would probably fade in a day or so but he would be stiff and sore until then which meant that he would be staying indoors if he wanted to avoid any embarrassing questions about why he didn’t want to sit down.

 

John knocked on the door leading to Sherlock’s bedroom. He opened it to the sight of a pouting Sherlock squirming on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position while clutching a teddy bear. He squinted. There was something familiar about the teddy bear but he just couldn’t remember from where. Dismissing the thought he entered the room.

 

“You are finally up. Here take this,” John said mildly, trying not to smile at the adorable sight in front of him. “It is an ointment. It will help with the pain and bruises.”

 

Sherlock pointedly ignored John as he was debating whether he could actually get up without it hurting too much. He needed to go to the toilet.

 

“Or would you prefer that I rub the ointment on for you?” John asked. He wouldn’t mind if he could lay his hands on that delightfully plush arse again.

 

“No!” Sherlock said, trying not to wince and failing to do so. “Leave it on the bedside table. I need to go the bathroom.”

 

“You need any help? I would love to help you,” John said solicitously, with a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.

 

“No! Get out of my room now! If you want to make yourself useful, make me a cup of tea.” Sherlock huffed. What cheek! After last night, there was no way he would let Dr Watson anywhere near his backside.

 

“As you wish, your majesty,” John said, giving a mocking bow and leaving the room. “One tea **and** breakfast on the way.”

 

\---

 

When Sherlock was alone again, his phone gave a beep to indicate an incoming text message.

 

Feeling sore? –MH

 

Piss off! –SH

 

Piss off? How many times have I told you to never piss off an Alpha? –MH

 

Do you have no politicians to bully? No elections to rig? –SH

 

No. This is far more fun. I am sure you got to know Dr John Watson so much better last night. –MH

 

You knew. –SH

 

“The Doctor” was quite notorious for his brand of medication before he retired. I did offer you his personal file. YOU rejected it! ╮ (╯▽╰) ╭  –MH

 

PISS OFF X 1000 TIMES –SH

 

Ah…. As you put it so eloquently. Time for me to get back to bullying politicians and rigging elections. Have a nice day resting your sensitive behind. –MH

  
Sherlock gave a disdainful sniff and decided to ignore his phone.

 

 

\------

 

 

**Mycroft’s Office, unknown location**

 

Mycroft stared at his phone. Out of respect for Sherlock’s privacy, no cameras had been installed inside the flat of Baker Street. However, he didn’t need any video footage to be able to surmise some of what had probably transpired at the flat last night. He had handpicked Dr John Watson and had gently steered Sherlock towards selecting him as his flatmate. He hoped that he hadn’t made a mistake and that things hadn’t gone too far last night. Sherlock had been out of control since he moved out of Mycroft’s London residence, taking unnecessary risks in the pursuit of what he called ‘The Work’. He had resented Mycroft’s interference and now Mycroft had been forced to rely on an outsider to help rein in Sherlock’s wilder instincts. His brother needed discipline. Nothing anyone had tried had managed to curb his younger brothers worrying lack of self-preservation or control. Selecting Dr Watson and his particular from of discipline was a calculated risk. It would either be the making or the breaking of his younger brother, but he had truly been at a loss as to what else to try. He hadn’t forgotten ‘the TALK’ he had had with Sherlock when his younger brother had his first wet dream. Over the years, he had monitored Sherlock’s friends closely, thinking that his young sibling would have eventually pick one of his schoolmates in Cambridge to experiment with. But as far as he knew, Sherlock had never shown any interest in ‘experimenting’ with anyone. Well, if Sherlock chose to explore now, John would be a good teacher. He just hoped that he wasn’t making a huge mistake by trying to reawaken this side of Sherlock.

 

\------

 

**Baker Street, living room**

 

“For such a tall man, you have the appetite of an ant,” John remarked as Sherlock took only three bites of his breakfast and left the rest of the food on the plate untouched.

 

“I try not to eat when I am working. Digestion slows me down,” Sherlock said, trying to look dignified while trying not to squirm on the cushion which he had grudgingly accepted from John when he sat down for breakfast. Out of sheer pride, he walked out of his bedroom to show that he wasn’t affected by the spanking he received last night. It would have been far too humiliating to eat his breakfast in bed.

 

“Working? You’ve already wrapped up the cabbie case, right?” John asked, frowning at the amount of food left on the plate. Last night he had to practically nag Sherlock into finishing his dinner.

 

“Yes, that case is none of my concern now. I am working on something else. Now pass me my laptop. It’s on the table. Talking about work, don’t you have an interview to attend? As a locum doctor?”

 

“About last night…” John ventured when he cleared away the dishes.

 

“We can talk when you return,” Sherlock interrupted as he opened his laptop. “Now that you have made a miraculous recovery from your PTSD, I’m sure the surgery will welcome your help in killing their patients.”

 

John gave a wry smile. Months of therapy for his PTSD with no discernible results and then he spends less than three days with Sherlock and makes a full recovery. He knew he should have fired his therapist long ago. He accepted Sherlock dismissal, vowing to talk with the younger man when he returned after his interview.

 

\-------

 

John went and donated his walking stick to the Salvation Army before making his way back to the flat. Given the shortage of doctors in the UK, the Health Centre had welcomed him with open arms. At least the job would help to pay off the mounting bills that had accumulated since his return from Afghanistan.

 

Sherlock was typing away furiously on his laptop when he returned to the Baker Street flat.

 

“Got the job? I am sure they fell all over themselves to hire you,” Sherlock said, his eyes glued to the laptop screen.

 

“Yes. I will have no problem paying for my half of the rent and groceries now,” John said as he perched on the arm of his chair. “What are you working on? Updating your website? Answering queries from your clients? Surfing porn?”

 

“I do not surf porn,” Sherlock said primly. He looked up to John. “I am updating the job description for Mycroft’s PA.”

 

“Anthea? She quit?” John asked. Since his first meeting with Mycroft six years ago, Anthea had always been his PA.

 

“You see but you do not observe. Flat shoes. Radiant skin. Small but visible stomach, known commonly as a baby bump. Must have been a lapse in judgement for her to allow an Alpha to knock her up.”

 

“Oh. So who is her mate?”

 

“Some high-flying diplomat.”

 

“I must congratulate her then. She would make an excellent diplomat’s wife. But I don’t understand. Why are you writing the job description for Anthea’s replacement?”

 

“I have a vested interest. None of Mycroft’s PA lasted more than three months before I stepped in and found Anthea.” Sherlock saved the document and slammed his laptop closed. “Sit. We need to talk.”

 

John was having a déjà vu moment. He had said the same thing to Sherlock last night.

 

“What do you want to talk about?” John shifted from the arm of his chair and sat down facing the younger man.

 

“Last night. I want to know why.”

 

“Why? What are you are referring to? The spanking or the handjob?” This was interesting. Most people would be embarrassed or outraged. Sherlock simply wanted to know why.

 

“Both.” Sherlock flushed slightly and winced as his backside reminded him again of what had happened last night.

 

“Spanking. That was the best way to shut you up without hurting you too much. And I was very close to giving you a good thrashing for the way you endangered yourself yesterday.”

 

Sherlock frowned. “Why would you care? You told me that you would not be my keeper.”

 

“Perhaps I want to ensure the continued existence of my flatmate to pay his share of rent. I can’t pay the rent on my own.”

 

“Punishment and reward. You are, what people in some circles call, a Dom, right?”

 

John was taken aback for a moment by the abrupt change in topic. It looked as though Mycroft’s brother was not as innocent as he looked.

 

“Yes, I am a Dom. And what do you know about dom and sub culture? Have you dabbled in things that Mycroft is not aware of?"

 

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ve got a friend.”

 

John raised his eyebrow at the term ‘friend’. Didn’t that Sergeant, Sally Donovan, infer that Sherlock had no friend?

 

“He told me about this… subculture where people enjoy recreational scolding,” Sherlock said. “He is not a practitioner but he has a unique knowledge in this area.”

“A theorist?”

 

“You need not be a practitioner to know. Just look it up online and you can find a dozen of YouTube videos with step-by-step guides.”

 

The conversation was getting stranger by the minute. John tried not to smile at the thought of Sherlock spending his afternoon watching Dom/Sub instruction videos.

 

“There is a vast difference between theory and practice.”

 

“You had a teacher?”

 

“Yes, a very talented teacher. I am very privileged to have learnt from her. A remarkable lady, who has now retired. One of the first pioneers among Omegas to make a name as a Dominatrix.”

 

“The Madame?”

 

John’s mouth dropped open in shock. “What the hell? Where did you learn about ’The Madame’?” The Omega Dominatrix had made a name for herself in very exclusive circles where you had to be invited to join. John knew that Sherlock would have been unable to find any information on her on the internet as her clients came from the higher echelons of society who valued, and took extreme measures to ensure, their privacy.

 

Seeing John’s confusion Sherlock decided to explain. “I knew her son. He was my junior at Cambridge.”

 

“Son?” John tried to jog his memory. “A Beta, I believe. ‘The Madame’ was, as I recall, very disappointed that her only offspring turned out to be an extremely prudish Beta.”

 

“Asexual,” Sherlock corrected. “Given my friend’s unique and extensive knowledge which he no doubt learnt from his mother, his conclusion was that sex, be it vanilla or kinky, is greatly overrated. To quote him, “it is difficult to take anyone serious after seeing them melt into a pool of need, pathetically begging for sex like some animal in the wild”. Like any sensible Beta, he values mind over baser instincts.”

 

John frowned at the comment, a nagging worry starting to form in his gut.

 

“That is theory! There is a wealth of difference between practice and theory! I have a feeling this ‘friend’ of yours has only theoretical knowledge. How can you discard something that you haven’t tried before? And anyway, why are we having this conversation about sex? You wanted to know why I gave you a spanking and a handjob? Well, the short answer is that I enjoyed it tremendously. I was making a point about you endangering yourself by setting yourself up as a tempting target for Alphas. The handjob was a reward for you for actually shutting up and listening to me. I like to multitask. You are overanalysing what happened last night. If we had sex, what would you do? Write a 100,000 word thesis how stupid sex is?”

 

“Ah, so you are saying that last night’s activities were a means to an end? And that your Dom persona has, in certain circumstances, helped you to get whatever you needed when you were in MI6?”

 

If you put it that way… YES! But I don’t see –”

 

"So what is the difference when I use the promise of sex to get what I need?” Sherlock interrupted. “I am neither blind nor stupid. I know that people are attracted to me. With the promise of sex, most people give me the information I need willingly. Appealing to the baser instincts, of Alphas especially, has proven to be a very efficient method in getting people off-balance and enabling me to get the information I need. Alphas and even some of the dominant Betas love a challenge.”

 

“So you knew. You lead people on deliberately, with implied promises!” John could feel his anger from last night returning as Sherlock brushed off his concerns and continued talking.

 

“I studied human nature and I practised in front of a mirror. A scornful look to subtly challenge the authority of the Alphas and the dominant Betas who believe that pretty boys like me belong chained to a bed serving a master. A coquettish look from under the eyelashes for those who would prefer to deflower a virgin. Even without the actual physical act of copulation, the mere promise of it is a powerful weapon. It throws people off-balance. So I can’t fault you for using your Dom persona to get what you needed, it is probably the most efficient method to extract information from those who enjoy being submissive. It would be difficult for them to think rationally when they are tied up and whipped by you. So why are you harping on the fact that I am ‘endangering’ myself with mere promises when you can use sex as a means to an end? Unlike you, I don’t actually engage in the physical act of copulation and I have no risk of losing my rational mind.”

 

John rubbed his hand over his face in trying to gather his thoughts. Was Sherlock really so unaware of the danger he was placing himself in.

 

“It sounds logical in theory. But in real life, things don’t work out that neatly. You study human nature but you don’t understand human nature,” John continued, on ignoring the outraged snort from the man opposite him. “You cannot dissect human nature and expect the outcome to be the same every time. You have heard of the term ‘crime of passion’, right? Caught at the wrong time and wrong place, things could go downhill very quickly. In my previous line of work, I was shot, knifed and beaten up, usually because a situation didn’t go according to plan. I was a trained agent but even with my training, there were tight situations that I only survived because Lady Luck was smiling down on me.”

 

Sherlock huffed straightening up in his chair. “I am trained in judo, aikido, karate and bartitsu.  I am not some damsel in distress in need of a strong Alpha to defend me or protect me from unwanted attention.”

 

“Well, that damsel got himself an unwanted spanking last night.”

 

“That spanking led to a mind-blowing handjob. I’m not stupid enough to turn down a free orgasm.”

 

John gave up. He would give himself a headache if he tried to analyse what was going on in Sherlock’s mind.

 

“So did you get the answers you were looking for?” John finally asked.

 

“Well… yes.”

 

An awkward silence filled the air.

 

“If you try the spanking stunt again, you will be in for a very nasty surprise,” Sherlock said. He gave a speculative look at John. “However, I won’t mind getting another free handjob. You are very skilled.”

 

While he had listened to Sherlock, it started to dawn on John that the younger man in front of him was perhaps not as worldly-wise as he had first thought.

 

He had thought when he had first spoken to Mycroft, that the man had just wanted a convenient watchdog for his younger brother, someone under his thumb, to watch over his sibling as he pursued his dangerous choice of career.

 

He was under no illusion that his current situation with Sherlock as his flatmate was accidental. The minute he had discovered that Sherlock was Mycroft’s younger brother he knew that Mycroft had somehow manipulated the situation, and his brother, to ensure that Sherlock selected John H. Watson, the not so ‘ex’ MI6 agent, to be his flatmate. The meeting with the elder Holmes a couple of days ago had confirmed that. And while he had been pissed off at first, at being manoeuvred into such a situation, he had quickly realised that he actually liked the younger Holmes brother. Plus Mycroft had been right, he had enjoyed the thrill of the chase as he and Sherlock had pursued the killer. But perhaps he had not been chosen just because of his more dangerous qualities.

 

Now that he realised that Sherlock was not only a virgin, but also a virgin who was totally clueless to the dangers he was placing himself in by using his attractiveness as a means of manipulation or gaining information. The man had no self-preservation skills whatsoever, and if left unchecked his naivety and his ignorance regarding actual sexual encounters were going to get him into a situation he wouldn’t be able to get himself out of.

 

John now suspected that the elder Holmes had selected him more for his rather more unique skill set of discipline and domination than his abilities as a secret agent. Mycroft, it seemed, wanted him to be both a protector and a possible teacher of sorts, someone to initiate Sherlock in the art of sexual interaction, while reigning in his more reckless tendencies. Mycroft didn’t just want him just to be there if Sherlock got in over his head regarding ‘The Work’, he wanted him to ensure Sherlock didn’t get himself sexually compromised. Mycroft really was a manipulative bastard, but at least he did seem to care for his brother.

 

Having seen first-hand Sherlock’s poor judgement when it came to interacting with the obviously interested Alpha and his positively strange, nearly orgasmic, reaction to the dead Omega it was obvious that the man didn’t have an ounce of understanding or self-preservation when it came to how others responded to him sexually. Mycroft hadn’t been understating things when he had called Sherlock reckless. So he could easily see why Mycroft thought that his brother needed a protector and someone to ensure that the younger man was equipped to deal with the many and varied elements of sexual interaction. Because if he continued on as he was, he was going to get himself seriously assaulted.

 

John had no qualms about performing the role of skilful teacher seducing a reluctant virgin out of his shell. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he had performed such a task and it would be a pleasure to be the first to bed the exceedingly attractive Beta. In fact, in the past as an agent, he would have considered it a feather in his cap for a common born Alpha like himself to deflower a noble born virgin. He would even have bragged about it and possibly used it as a form of blackmail. After all, no noble family would want it known that someone as lowborn as himself had sullied their line.

 

So why him? Why had Mycroft chosen him to be Sherlock’s teacher? Surely Mycroft could have found someone more appropriate and socially acceptable than an ex (or on long unpaid leave as Sherlock had put it) MI6 agent with PTSD, a broken shoulder, and a well documented resentment towards the Elite which was also morally ambiguous? Had he been chosen because he was emotionally detached and would be able to just walk away from Sherlock after imparting his skills to his protégé, without so much as a backward glance, no strings attached? To be used as nothing but a painful reminder and lesson to the younger Holmes regarding trust and how sex could be used against him?

 

Or perhaps he had been chosen because Mycroft had felt comfortable seeing that he had some degree of control over him? After all, the elder Holmes did have files about him, files which contained information that could literally hang him. Mycroft could have chosen any number of people, who would have been better suited to the task, someone who would gently initiate Sherlock into the art of lovemaking. It wasn’t unknown for a family to hire such a tutor to instruct their children once they came of age. Also, if Mycroft had wanted, he could have taken Sherlock’s virginity himself, as head of the family he had every right to bed any member of the Holmes family. Possibly Mycroft had been afraid that he would destroy the innocence of his obviously cherished baby brother? After all, the man had left a trail of broken hearts as well as a few broken bodies behind him on his rise to power. Mycroft was a ruthless and driven man, not someone suited to long-term relationships, and Sherlock would have been just another casualty along the way. Whatever Mycroft’s reasons were for selecting him, John now had to consider how to proceed with the younger Holmes now that he suspected what was required of him.

  
For the first time in a very long time, John felt a prick of conscience, something he thought he had lost the day he watched the first person he had killed in the line of duty bleed out in front of him. He had thought his conscience had died at the same moment that the light in the eyes of his first victim had dimmed forever. Perhaps his conscience wasn’t as dead as he thought.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kick me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A painful memory in the past. And how Sherlock becomes the World's Only Consulting Detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to my Beta reader Megabat who did an excellent job beta-reading and being my sounding board. Any mistakes found in the work are mine.
> 
>  
> 
> I have my own website at http://peach-tart.com/ where I sometimes share my thoughts when writing.

Power is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to protect the innocent.

 

                                                                                                   Jonathan Swift

 

* * *

 

**Mycroft’s Office, Undisclosed Whitehall Building**

 

“An agent gave his life to get us this information,” David Darbyshire, the Director General of the Intelligence Services said. “He confirmed that the ‘Werewolf’ is alive. We have intelligence to suggest that he is behind the increased Alpha Supremacy activities across Western Europe.”   

 

The man now known as the Werewolf was supposed to have died 10 years ago en route to Columbia together with 232 other passengers on the plane that crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. Mycroft had been alerted to the possible survival of his enemy four years ago. He had hoped at the time that it was nothing more than speculation and scaremongering, as there had been no reliable information about the mysterious new criminal mastermind rising to power in Eastern Europe. But Mycroft did not believe in coincidences, as the universe was rarely so lazy. Since then, the Intelligence Agencies had been collecting any and all information regarding the man. But there was very little information to be found. It wasn’t until the gruesome murder of Victor Trevor at Cambridge that Mycroft had his confirmation that his old archenemy had returned to exact his revenge.

 

“We have solid information that the Werewolf has sent his right hand man to London, the man goes by the name of Moriarty.”                                             

 

Mycroft frowned. “The same ‘Moriarty’ who was allegedly the sponsor for the serial killer cabbie?”

 

Darbyshire nodded. “Very likely. The ‘sponsor’ did not keep his word though. Both the cabbie’s children were killed. There have been whispers that the cabbie had overstepped his purview and put Mr. Sherlock Holmes in danger and thus was punished.”

 

“Concentrate your resources to finding this ‘Moriarty’.”

 

“Yes, I have done so. We also have had some indication that this ‘Moriarty’ was behind several of the underground Alpha Supremacy lead activities in London recently. All the chatter, all the underground intelligence, concurs that something is brewing, a massive attack on London. I would like to recommend that the terror alert in London be raised from moderate to severe.” Darbyshire regarded his boss solemnly.

 

“Severe?” Mycroft said raising an eyebrow. The last time the terror alert had been raised to severe, Britain had been on the verge of war. Six months after that, the terror alert was raised to critical and World War Two broke out. Britain won the war but lost an empire in the process. David Darbyshire was a cautious man. The economic cost incurred by the increased terror alert would be high; more funds would need to be diverted to cover the resulting security measures. Mycroft knew that Darbyshire would not make such a bold recommendation if he did not have solid information to back it up.

 

Mycroft closed the folder in front of him and looked up at his subordinate. “Raise the terror alert. I will require a daily report on the situation,” Mycroft said.

 

After Darbyshire took his leave, Mycroft stood and walked over to the cabinet by the window, pulling out a glass and a bottle of scotch he poured himself a drink and downed it in one then poured himself another.

 

The Werewolf had been building and expanding his powerbase in Eastern Europe over the last ten years. For the first six years he had worked in secret, keeping all hints of his existence hidden, as he accumulated power and money. But after Cambridge he had become far more aggressive in his approach, his agents had managed to infiltrate Western Europe, and as the Cambridge incident had so graphically proven, he was more than capable of striking on Mycroft’s home ground, and at the heart of his family.

 

Mycroft had spent those same ten years consolidating his own power base in Britain, and subsequently in Western Europe and had sent his own agents to infiltrate Eastern Europe. One day, he knew he would have to go head-to-head with the Werewolf. The East Wind is coming, a terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path with Sherlock standing before the coming storm. Mycroft poured himself another drink at the thought of his little brother.

 

There had been a price to pay for his rise to power; his hands were stained with blood. He had given orders that had led to the deaths of not only his enemies, but their families, friends and associates. No one had been safe in his ruthless ascent to the top, be it men, women or children. Mycroft knew his soul was doomed; he was resigned to the fact that to remain at the pinnacle of power, he needed to be ruthless with no conscience. He lived in the dark recesses of the corridors of power, a monster that mothers whispered to their children about. The only light he had in his life was his brother, Sherlock, his salvation.

 

Innocence. That was what Mycroft sought to protect. He was numbed to the dark depths of human depravity that the Elite class would indulge in, just because they could. Even a child from their class would not hesitate to commit violent acts against their own parents if it would gain them power. Sherlock was an anomaly for an Elite; he had a childlike innocence, seeing everything in terms of puzzles to be solved, and adventures to be pursued. While he studied and understood human nature, he did not comprehend that the darker aspects of that nature could be turned against him. In part, it was Mycroft’s fault, for protecting Sherlock so thoroughly, sheltering him from the darker aspects of the Elite class.

 

Sherlock was unique. An Elite would inevitably be expected to be involved in some manner in the subtle and vicious power struggles between the noble families. Even Betas, especially if they were from the direct family line, would not be spared. This was a world where every action, every word would be weighed and analyzed to ensure the expansion of the power base of the family. An Elite would not be allowed to be the world’s only consulting detective only interested in solving strange crimes. Nor would he be permitted to live in a slightly run down flat with a common born Alpha who had a shady past and who had trouble paying rent on time. An Elite would not spend his night chasing criminals or playing violin at home.

 

Innocence. Sherlock would draw everything living in the darkness to him like a moth to a flame. He would be devoured alive by the perverted desires of the Elite class, his innocence sullied and destroyed because they had bred innocence out of their lines long ago. _I worry about Sherlock. Constantly._ These had been his words to John Watson.

 

He had vowed that he would protect his baby brother, and he had failed so spectacularly. Again and again, Sherlock had been badly hurt. He was like the 15th century Ming Dynasty vase that Mycroft had broken accidentally as a child. He had painstakingly glued the pieces back together. But even when the vase had been repaired, the cracks had remained, the integrity of the vase had been compromised and with every small knock, the vase would shatter again until no repairs had been possible. He knew only too well that Sherlock’s mind was like that broken vase, held together by adhesive. His mind had already been ‘repaired’ twice, and the latest repair was proving unstable at best.

 

Mycroft would never forget the first haunting sight of his brother four years ago. Sherlock had been attending University in Cambridge and was on his way to getting his degree, master and then the doctorate in chemistry. After his graduation, Sherlock would then embark on a research career, a safe career choice where Sherlock would work in a secured facility with access to the best equipment money could buy. However, his plans for Sherlock’s future was destroyed by the murder of Victor Trevor, Sherlock’s Alpha friend in Cambridge. Three months after the death of Victor Trevor, the first signs that everything was not well with Sherlock, surfaced. Sherlock had started to skip his classes claiming that he was unwell. The surveillance team Mycroft had shadowing his brother failed to pick up on the clues that something was very wrong with the younger Holmes, not surprising really considering that Sherlock was very adept at keeping secrets when he put his mind to it.

 

It was only after Sherlock disappeared from campus that they uncovered the fact that Sherlock had been more deeply affected by the death of his friend than anyone had realised. After Sherlock’s disappearance, a search of his dorm room revealed drug paraphernalia and cocaine. It now became clear why Sherlock had been missing his classes. Witnessing the horrific death of Victor Trevor, and the resulting revelations as to who had been responsible had driven Sherlock to drugs.

 

Weeks went by but neither the police nor the Intelligence community had been able to find any trace of Sherlock. It had been over a month later that Sherlock’s loyal college junior had discovered that a strung out Sherlock had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital as a John Doe.

 

\-----------

 

**_Four years ago_ **

 

_“Hello, is this Mr. Holmes? Mr. Mycroft Holmes? Sherlock’s brother?” a timid voice at the other end of the phone said._

 

_Mycroft’s heart sank at the unknown voice; he had hoped that when his private line had activated that it was his missing sibling._

 

_“Who are you?” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he indicated to his assistant that the call be traced. No one other than Sherlock knew the existence of his direct line._

 

_Mycroft was on the verge of sacking all of the Intelligence Agencies for failing to locate any trace of his missing brother. It had been over a month and no one had seen or heard from the younger Holmes._

 

_“I…I…my name is Colin. Colin Belair.”_

 

_Mycroft fought to remain calm as he replied. “What can I do for you Mr. Colin Belair?”_

 

_“Sher..sher…lock is my senior in Cambridge,” the voice at the other end was so soft that Mycroft could hardly hear it. The speaker was obviously very nervous. “I….I know Sherlock has disappeared and I think I know where…..where he is now.”_

 

_“Where?” Mycroft demanded, a flicker of hope in his voice._

 

_“I….I found…found…” the voice at the other end stammered._

 

_“Found what? Where is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked as Andrea passed him the call trace results._

 

_“Andrew Rundle,” the voice at the other end finally said. “The one who supplies Sherlock with the drugs. He said….said there was a mix up and Sherlock had been taken away during a gambling raid.”_

 

_Drug supplier? MI5 and the police had interviewed all the drug dealers who were known to supply Sherlock and Mycroft knew that Andrew Rundles name was not on any of the lists of people that they had interviewed._

 

_“He…he’s an Alpha from one of the old families…he deals drugs on campus and runs a gambling den. Not many people know about it.”_

 

_Mycroft sighed, he should have know that the Elites would have their own supplier on campus._

 

_“I went to the police station. I begged and begged and one sergeant told me that they had released every one that had been arrested that night, except for one John Doe who was too far gone on drugs to be released, they sent him to the Alldredge Psychiatric Hospital for further evaluation three days ago. I went down to the hospital earlier but they refused to let me in. Please, Mr. Holmes, I may be wrong and I could be wasting your precious time. But….but…could you go to the hospital to check? The sergeant said that the person they sent there was in a very bad way, and well there have been stories about Alldredge and their mistreatment of their patients."_

 

_Mycroft had rushed down to the psychiatric hospital. He had not recognised the emaciated creature lying on the bare bed with shorn hair in and dead eyes as his bright, vivacious baby brother. During his incarceration, a decision had been made to force feed the severely emaciated and uncooperative Sherlock. Mycroft and his security detail had arrived at the hospital in time to witness how the hospital forced fed its more reluctant patients. The wardens were holding his brother down and had forced his mouth open with a steel medical gag to stop him from biting. They were laughing and taunting their helpless patient, as a thick rubber feeding tube was being pushed through the nostril. Even the blood, which was gushing out of his nose, did not stop the relentless push of the feeding tube all the way down to the stomach of the terrified patient. Mycroft was not a physically violent man, after all he had people to do that sort of thing for him, but the sight of the uncaring wardens bending over his brother was enough for him to burst into action. Snatching the gun from the bodyguard beside him he shot all three wardens._

 

_\----------_

 

_Mycroft had ensured that Alldredge Psychiatric Hospital was closed down immediately. The subsequent expose on the abuses at the Hospital led to the incarceration of several of the employees who had participated in the abuse of the patients. Sherlock had only been there for three days, thanks to his junior in Cambridge who had cared enough to track him down. Even Mycroft had been shocked at the level of abuse uncovered at the hospital. The patients were mostly kept drugged with heavy sedatives to keep them quiet and co-operative and force-fed when they were showed any signs of resistance. Several patients had also been sexually assaulted. Thankfully after an intensive medical exam Mycroft had been assured that his younger brother had not suffered that indignity._

 

_As it was their medical report was dire, as far as they could tell from their tests Sherlock had been taking ever increasing amounts cocaine in the month that he had been missing, so much so that his body could literally not function without them. He was suffering from severe withdrawal and malnutrition, his organs were on the verge of shutting down, and since his rescue he had not responded to any outside stimulus. Despite all attempts by the medical staff to stabilise him, Sherlock had slipped into a coma._

 

_Sherlock had spent the next two years in a discreet high security Rehabilitation Centre at Baskerville. For the first six months, Sherlock had remained comatose, totally lost to the world. Even though Mycroft would never give up on his brother, he had come very close to losing hope. Although they had successfully treated Sherlock’s unconscious body through his drug withdrawal and they had managed to put some weight back onto his almost skeletal frame, they could not entice his brother to wake up. None of the doctors and specialists that he had engaged could penetrate the world Sherlock had hidden himself away in._

 

_\---------_

 

_**Baskerville Rehabilitation Centre, 3.5 years ago** _

 

_Mycroft visited Sherlock every night. Sometimes he would talk to him but most of the time, he bought his work along with him and sat in silence. Gradually, Sherlock’s room transformed into Mycroft’s office and unless there was an immediate need for his presence in London, he would spend almost all of his time working in Sherlock’s room._

 

_“The doctors told me that you are beyond help, Sherlock,” Mycroft said to the catatonic figure sitting in the armchair. He sighed as his brother’s eyes remained vacant and unmoving. If it wasn’t for the ever-present medical equipment attached to him, his brother’s still form could pass for a shop mannequin. Sherlock, unable to eat for himself, had a venous port attached to him so that a machine could provide intravenous feedings for 16 hours a day. Without the medical intervention, Sherlock would have faded away long ago._

 

_“I have access to all the medical resources in the country. But no one can tell me what is wrong with you. Some claim that you have cocaine-induced catatonia. Did you know that when we found you, you were one step away from dying from an overdose?”_

 

_“Some believe that you have catatonic schizophrenia. Nothing to do with the drugs. A sort of mental illness. One doctor even swore to me that you have Pervasive Refusal Syndrome, even though it has never been diagnosed in adults.”_

 

_Mycroft rubbed his hand across his face, the tiredness and stress getting the best of him. “I don’t know who or what to believe anymore Sherlock. The doctors wanted to shoot you up with more drugs in an attempt to jolt your system into life. I put a stop to it. You are not a guinea pig in a laboratory. I think my brother is still with me even though the stubborn streak in you refuses to leave the world you have cocooned yourself in. If the doctors drug you, I think I would lose you forever.”_

 

_“I know you felt guilty about what happened in Cambridge. But trust me there was nothing you could have done to prevent the murder. I know Victor was your friend and you had feelings for him but you have to know that what happened in that room was not your fault.”_

 

_Mycroft’s eyes searched his brother’s face for any sign that Sherlock heard or understood what he was trying to tell him. But there was no change on Sherlock’s face, just the same unnerving blank expression._

 

_“Do you remember Andrew Rundle? The dealer who so conveniently provided you with drugs and gave you ‘shelter’ in that underground gambling den of his, when you were so high that you couldn’t think of anything beyond for your next fix? He had been paid to do so Sherlock. He was dead before he could be questioned, Suicide. All the information that we found that could have lead us to the mysterious person who paid him, have come to a dead end although I do have my own suspicions regarding Rundle’s involvement and subsequent death. But so far I have been unable to prove anything.”_

 

_“You are very lucky to have such loyal friends in Cambridge. Your Beta friends combed the streets of London looking for you when you disappeared. Even your timid friend, Colin Belair, joined the search. You do know that he is an unregistered Omega even though he is now legally a Beta? He must care a lot about you to have endangered himself by searching the drug dens for you. You understand what could have happen to him if people had found out that he is an Omega? He actually confronted Andrew Rundle. He gave the man a blowjob in return for information.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Things could have gotten very ugly if your little friend had not escaped after getting the information. You owe Colin Belair your life Sherlock.”_

 

_“You have earned yourself a Masters in Chemistry. We retrieved your thesis from your laptop and the Cambridge Board was unanimous in awarding you the degree even though you were not available to present it. In case you are wondering, I did not influence the Cambridge Board’s decision. You earn it on your own merits.”_

 

_There was still no response from the other occupant of the room. Mycroft would give anything about now, just to hear Sherlock complaining about him interfering in his life._

 

_“Are you angry with me for failing you? Is that the reason why refuse to return?”_

 

_Mycroft sighed pinching the bridge of his nose as the oppressing silence in the room became too much for him. Looking at the still too thin figure of his normally hyperactive brother he ventured one more question._

 

_“Are you frightened that HE is back?”_

 

_Mycroft would spend whole days talking. But the figure in front of him was like an empty shell. After six months, despite the effort of every expert he had consulted, his brother was still lost to him. With a sigh, Mycroft lifted a rather ragged teddy bear wearing a fuzzy jumper with the letter M embroidered on the front from the paper bag on the table. It was a Steiff bear one that had been custom made for Sherlock when he was little._

 

_As a child, Sherlock had been very close to Mycroft and had refused sleep alone in his own room, claiming that monsters were hiding under the bed. Mycroft had given Sherlock the teddy bear, telling him that the bear would protect him from all the monsters. It worked and from that moment onwards the bear always had a place of honor in Sherlock’s bed. As a young child Sherlock would drag the bear everywhere, and when he went to Cambridge, the teddy bear followed._

 

_“I am going be away for a week, Sherlock. I have to be in Germany for the peace talks,” Mycroft said as he placed the bear in Sherlock’s lap. This would be the first time in the months since his brother had been found that he would be leaving Sherlock alone for an extended period of time. “Teddy will protect you when I am away.”_

 

_Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and turned towards the door._

 

_“Don’t leave,” the voice behind him was faint and rusty from disuse, a croaking rasp. But to Mycroft it sounded amazing._

 

_Mycroft turned back slowly a smile gracing his lips. His brother had returned to him._

 

_\----------_

 

**_Mycroft’s London home, 3 years ago_ **

 

_Even though Sherlock had awakened from his catatonic state, the road to complete recovery was long and arduous. The venous port remained attached to Sherlock, as he had become anorexic, unable to swallow or retain food in his stomach._

 

_There were good days and there were bad days. On good days, Sherlock would be alert, able to hold a normal conversation with Mycroft. On bad days, Sherlock would be delusional, holding conversations with imaginary creatures, which only he could see. Gradually the number of bad days outnumbered the number of good days._

 

_“We need to get silver bullets,” Sherlock told Mycroft in a solemn tone._

 

_“Why?”_

 

_“Because the Werewolf told me he is coming to get me. Only silver bullets can kill the Werewolf.”_

 

_“The Werewolf is not real, Sherlock,” Mycroft said tiredly. Ever since the Werewolf delusion had manifested itself, Sherlock had brought up constantly the need to acquire silver bullets._

 

_“He is standing behind you, Mycroft. He is going to get us all.”_

 

_\----------_

 

_**Mycroft’s Study** _

 

_“I would advise against that, Mycroft.” The speaker was in his fifties and shared similar facial features with Mycroft, an indication that he was part of the Holmes family._

 

_“Sherlock is going from bad to worse. He is delusional. He is having whole conversations with the Werewolf, the Hanging Woman and now the latest apparition, the Dancing Puppet.”_

 

_“Hypnosis does not erase memories. You know that, Mycroft. Many years ago, I warned you of the dangers of using hypnosis. No matter how painful they are, memories cannot be erased away totally. They can be suppressed but eventually, they will resurface. My worst fears have come to pass Mycroft. Sherlock has never really forgotten the memories you and your doctors tried to erase after the attack when he was a child. You may think the Werewolf and the other monsters are delusions, but to Sherlock’s mind they are the manifestations of the memories your doctors tired to suppress using hypnosis.”_

 

_Mycroft slammed his fist down on the desk glaring at the older man. “He was too young to deal with them then. You know that, Uncle Edgar. He was only a child. No child should be burdened with such horrific knowledge.”_

 

_The older man smiled sadly. “I know. Which is the reason why I reluctantly agreed with your decision all those years ago. But look at the consequences now! And you want to put Sherlock under hypnosis again? Plus you want to use some untried drug that your pet doctors at Baskerville have developed? Sherlock is no longer a child Mycroft. He needs to deal with this as an adult.”_

 

_Mycroft leaned forward his eyes pleading with his uncle to understand. “He can’t deal with it uncle! At least not now. He is anorexic and he is almost completely delusional. We need to help him keep his subconscious under control for now. At least long enough to help him regain his sanity and his strength. I will help Sherlock to face the demons when he is stronger, just not right now.”_

 

_Sensing he was not going to win this battle the older man decided to address one of his other concerns. “Julian has been sniffing around, asking questions about Sherlock. About his condition and which hospital he was staying at.”_

 

_“Julian?” Mycroft asked sharply. Julian Holmes had been one of his strongest rivals for position as Head of the Holmes family after his father’s assassination. Julian had garnered the support of those in the family who believed in Alpha Supremacy and that Mycroft’s father had been a fool not to seize control of the Omega population. Julian also had an almost unhealthy obsession with Sherlock, even though he regarded Betas as worthless, even a Beta from the direct Holmes line. Julian was always watching Sherlock and during one of Mycroft’s overseas trips a few years ago, he had attempted to remove Sherlock to his residence on the pretext that Sherlock needed adult supervision. Hidden cameras were later found in Sherlock’s bedroom and bathroom, a measure, which not even Mycroft had stooped to, out of respect for his brother’s privacy. Although they were never traced to Julian directly, Mycroft had strong suspicions that the man had planted the cameras. He also had his suspicions about Julian’s involvement in a certain drug den in Cambridge._

 

_“I don’t think Julian knows anything. But….”Edgar Holmes hesitated before continuing, “I know that he has been to the hospital where Sherlock was born, he asked them to release a copy of Sherlock’s birth certificate to him.” Seeing his nephews eyes widen in alarm he raised his hand to forestall any outburst from the younger man. “Relax Mycroft they refused him. I know you think Julian is a pathetic worm with delusions of restoring the archaic laws of complete Alpha Supremacy, but I think you should be careful of him. He is charismatic and has the support of the younger members of the family regarding his views on how power should be wielded. He is also frequently seen in the company of other Noble Families who are pro-Alpha Supremacy. And if he knew about Sherlock…”_

 

_“—he would be killed. It would not the first time that I have had to resort to spilling family blood Uncle. If he wants to be the Head of the Holmes family, he should challenge me directly. I would regard it as treason if he sought the help of other Noble Families,” Mycroft said, a cold look in his eyes. “After all I have had to deal with traitors within the family before.”_

 

_\----------_

 

_**Mycroft’s London home, 2.5 years ago** _

 

_Sherlock had recovered from his substance abuse and, despite Uncle Edgar’s reservations regarding Mycroft’s doctors meddling with his youngest nephews memories, he had also seemingly recovered from his subsequent breakdown. However, he remained anorexic and could only tolerate small amounts of food. He was still severely malnourished and still needed Intravenous nutrition, which required him to stay in bed for several hours each day. Although Sherlock never again spoke of imaginary monsters, he was listless and uninterested in his surroundings. Not even a rare ancient chemistry text Mycroft had found could stir his interest._

 

_“Ah, Greg. Nice to see you again after so long, I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, you skipped the last three dinner invitations,” Mycroft said._

 

_To everyone, Greg Lestrade seemed an unremarkable Beta, a Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard. He belonged to a distant Holmes family branch in France, a descendant of one of the Beta Holmes who had help revive the family fortune 700 years ago. He was also one of the few people Mycroft trusted implicitly. Greg was content to be on the outskirts of the Holmes power base, and had instead relied on his own skills and merit to reach his position in the police force._

 

_“Yeah well I have been a little busy. We have a serial killer on the loose. Ten women have been murdered in just over a six month period. The killer left a white rose on each victim. The press doesn’t know that little detail yet but it is only a matter of time. We are under a lot of pressure from the public and the press to catch whoever is responsible. I was hoping I could get your input?” He indicated the brown folder in his hands._

 

_Mycroft noted that the man did look tired. “Pass me the files. I will take a look at it later,” He knew Greg would not have troubled him with something like this if the case could be solved using the normal channels. “Let’s have our dinner first.” Placing the files on his desk he led the other man towards the dining room._

 

_When Mycroft returned to his Study after dinner, he found Sherlock intently studying the files that had Greg left behind._

 

_“Could I go to the crime scene to take a look?” Sherlock raised his head finally, a spark of interest in his eyes, something that Mycroft had not seen for a long time. Mycroft felt something like hope swell in his chest._

 

_Under Greg’s careful eyes, Sherlock trampled all over the latest crime scene and solved the murders within three days. With blessings from Mycroft, Greg started to regularly consult Sherlock on some of the more interesting cases._

 

_\---------_

 

_“You are going to be WHAT?” Mycroft asked._

 

_“I am going to be a consulting detective,” Sherlock answered. Ever since he had solved his first case, he had become hopelessly hooked on solving crimes and pitting his wits against the various nefarious criminals of London. Mycroft was delighted that something had piqued his brother’s interest, but this was not a valid career choice for a member of the Holmes family._

 

_“There is no such thing as a consulting detective.”_

 

_“Only one in the world. I invented the job. It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” Mycroft tried not to smile at the smug statement from his brother._

 

_Mycroft regarded his brother closely. Ever since Greg had started feeding Sherlock cases that New Scotland Yard had deemed unsolvable, he had noticed a big change in his brother. He had never seen Sherlock so alive before; his eyes sparkled with excitement as his mind was challenged. He was also much healthier than he had been for a long time. Knowing that Mycroft would have used his still weakened condition as an excuse to curtail his crime investigating activities Sherlock had forced himself to eat sensibly and regularly, and gradually, he had recovered from his anorexia. If Mycroft were honest he would have wished that his brother had returned to Cambridge to pursue his doctorate instead of running all over London, solving crimes and building a Homeless Network as a source of information. However, Sherlock had tensed up at the mere mention of Cambridge and Mycroft did not dare to push any further. There was also the possibility that returning to Cambridge would cause meticulously buried memories to resurface. Sherlock was not ready to cope with all that had happened in Cambridge let alone what had happened years ago._

 

_“Of course, I would need my own flat. I have my eye on this nice little place in central London.”_

 

_“What? You are moving out?” Mycroft spluttered caught off guard by Sherlock’s latest revelation._

 

_“Greg only has so many interesting cases for me to investigate. I would need acquire clients to keep me in a ready supply mysteries to solve.”_

 

_“You could set up your…. consulting firm…or whatever you choose to call it here. There is no need to move out.” Mycroft had a sinking feeling that he was rapidly losing control of the situation._

 

_“Here? You think anyone would dare to approach this…this barricaded fortress where your agents would search them and check their background before they were even allowed to step inside? I need a normal place where my clients would be comfortable.”_

 

_Mycroft finally acceded to his brother’s request. He did insist however, on visiting the flat Sherlock intended to rent. He vehemently refused to allow Sherlock to move into the damp basement flat at 221C Baker Street even though Sherlock declared that it would be perfect for him to conduct experiments in without disturbing the neighbours with strange noises and odours. He reluctantly agreed that Sherlock should instead move into the flat at 221B, which in his own opinion was only slightly better than the dingy 221C basement flat. He had wanted to engage an interior designer to give the flat an overhaul but Sherlock had stubbornly dug his heels in and declared that the flat was adequate as it was. He wanted a place that his clients would be comfortable in not a swanky place that would intimidate them._

 

_\--------_

 

**_St Bartholomew’s Hospital_ **

 

_Molly Hooper, the Specialist Registrar in the morgue at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, walked into the locker room. She took out her keys and opened her locker. Behind her, the door swung open. She looked into the mirror on the inside of the locker door and saw a figure standing behind her, someone she had not seen for almost three years. She gasped and turned around._

 

_“It’s been a while, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said._

 

_\----------_

Author's note:

 

This is a difficult chapter for me to write and has taken longer than expected. I am not a doctor so please pardon if I have used any of the medical terms incorrectly.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something happened at a dirty back alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my patient and long-suffering beta reader Megabat. Any mistakes found in the work are mine.

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,

Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove;

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow,

Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.

If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,

Or the Nine be dispos’d from your service to rove,

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,

And try the effect, of the first kiss of love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;

I court the effusions that spring from the heart,

Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love.

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,

Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;

What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,

From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;

Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,

And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—

The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.

 

 _The First Kiss of Love_ , Lord Byron

* * *

 

Time flew by and soon it was time for John to file his first tax returns since his return from Afghanistan. He did a mental calculation and discovered with a start that he had been sharing the flat with Sherlock for six months already. It was as if he had been living with Sherlock forever and his former exciting MI6 career belonged to another lifetime. Sherlock had dragged him off to crime scenes at unholy hours and in the pursuit of criminals, had they had committed acts, which were definitely not on the right side of the law. They had even ended up being detained in the holding cell a couple of times until the long suffering D.I. Greg Lestrade came around to release them.

 

John had started a blog to document their adventures and they’d became some sort of Internet celebrities. Although Sherlock had scoffed at the lack of accuracy and had accused him of romanticising the cases, he was sure that Sherlock was secretly pleased at the attention he garnered. At the very least, he was inundated with private cases from which he could pick and choose whatever ones piqued his interest when the criminal class failed to provide enough entertainment or challenge.

 

There were memorable cases like A Scandal in Belgravia where Sherlock had turned up audaciously at Buckingham Palace wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet. John had almost been disappointed when Sherlock had not walked off without the bed sheet when he had threatened to do so. A quelling look from Mycroft and Sherlock had caved like a naughty child being chastised by his parent. Mycroft later shared with John that he always suspected that Sherlock had a secret love for streaking. As a young child, Sherlock would run away from his bath wet and naked, shrieking as if a banshee was after him. The poor nanny would be forced to chase the escapee. It was apparently very difficult to catch a very determined and wet five year old, who could wriggle out from anyone’s grasp like Houdini performing one of his escapology tricks. The escape would inevitably end with Sherlock jumping on Mycroft making him wet as well.

 

John also watched with interest, as Sherlock had seemed to fall in love with Irene Adler, an Alpha Dominatrix. The case had ended with her execution at the hand of the terrorists in Karachi and Sherlock had filed the incident away and never spoke of her again even though he still kept her phone. John speculated that Sherlock had an innate interest in _alternative_ culture as he had watched Sherlock flushed with both arousal and embarrassment when Irene Adler stated that she would have him on the desk until he begged for mercy twice. John had been surprised to find himself insanely jealous at the incident and had actually found himself ready to challenge the female Alpha if Sherlock had agreed. Despite the fact that he and Sherlock had now been living together for a little over six months, there was nothing really overtly sexual between them out with the realms of punishment and reward. There had been some flirting back and forward between them but nothing more than that. In the past, he would have seduced and jumped into the bed with an attractive partner by now, but for some reason he was content to take things slow with Sherlock. He would not push if Sherlock was not willing to take things a step further in their relationship, if you could even call it a relationship. John was willing to go slow and he admitted he was really enjoying the process of getting to know Sherlock better, in an uncomplicated, slightly more than friends or flatmates kind of way.

 

There were ups and downs in living with Sherlock. He had to be ‘The Doctor’ again and gave two repeat performances of his special brand of punishment and reward. The first time had been in punishment for leaving a severed head on John’s armchair. He could tolerate and ignore the odd severed head in the refrigerator but he drew the line at Sherlock leaving it on his armchair even though Sherlock had had the sense to place a plastic sheet down before putting the severed head on the chair. The second instance had been to reinforce the rule that Sherlock had to ensure the living room remained clutter-free. Since Sherlock had refused to let Mrs Hudson to touch his things claiming that she always messed up his stuff, Sherlock would be solely responsible for ensuring that the state of the living room would be live up to John’s standard of cleanliness.

 

For someone who was so vain about his appearance (although Sherlock would never admit in hogging the bathroom for a last minute touch-up) and dressed so effortlessly fashionable (John suspected that Sherlock had to have a fashion stylist behind the scenes picking out his clothes), Sherlock was a messy person to live with, if it wasn’t for Mycroft’s minions and their regular visits to clean up the flat while he and Sherlock were out, he doubted their flat sharing would have ran so smoothly. Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive tailored slim-fitting shirts and suits (which Sherlock would destroy at an alarming rate) were replaced regularly, as well as the obscenely expensive 100% Egyptian 1500 thread count cotton bed sheets. There would be a HUGE pile of £50 notes in the living room drawer, which would somehow auto-replenish on a weekly basis. John had no qualms using the money as Sherlock would always bounce out of the cab without paying and flatly refused to buy groceries although he had no problem ordering John to get what he needed. John suspected that Mycroft’s minions were also behind Sherlock’s magical feat of getting a taxi every time he waved imperiously for one. It was really uncanny how a taxi would automatically appear when Sherlock needed one. It was slightly creepy this army of never seen minions, but right now, one of Mycroft’s unseen minions was standing right in front of John in the living room with a file in one hand and a pie carrier in the other.

 

 

 

The minion was startlingly beautiful and androgynous, if one could ignore what the minion had done to hide his looks. He was slender, petite and even shorter than John by a head with large expressive doe-like green eyes that seemed to tilt just the slightest bit at the corners and had really long eyelashes. He had clear luminous skin and the kind of high cheekbones any woman would die for. There was a delicacy in his features that spoke of Asian blood, a unique combination of Caucasian and Asian traits. All in all, a very attractive minion who would be popular in the fashion or entertainment industry if he was a little taller, the sort of Beta with pronounced Omega features, which would make him popular with both the Alphas and Betas.

 

John had learn to employ different disguises in his spy career and the minion in front of him had tried to hide his looks behind a huge pair of glasses, which John would lay odds on being non- prescription, in a bid to look more serious. The minion wore a no-nonsense conservative business suit and looked every inch a young, successful, professional executive.

 

“You are?” John asked. This must be a special minion. Normal minions kept themselves out of sight.

 

“I am Colin Belair. I am Anthea’s replacement.”

 

“I see. Anthea’s replacement.” John remembered Sherlock typing away a few months ago claiming that he was updating the job description of Mycroft’s PA. “You know Sherlock?”

 

“We are in Cambridge together. He was my senior.”

 

 _I have a friend. He told me about this…subculture where people enjoy recreational scolding. He is not a practitioner but he has a unique knowledge in this area._ John recalled Sherlock’s words when they were having a talk about Dom/Sub.

 

Colin Beliar. Beliar.

 

“Are you Nadia’s Beliar’s son?” John asked. He had more than once listened to Nadia Belair’s laments that the only offspring of THE Omega Dominatrix “The Madame” turned out to be an extremely prudish Beta.

 

“Yes,” Colin replied and gave a small sigh.

 

“How’s Nadia?” John asked. Nadia Beliar was one of the few persons he trusted implicitly and had more than once helped him during his spy career.

 

“She passed away a year ago. Your name was in her address book but I was unable to contact you at the time, Dr Watson.”

 

“John. Call me John,” John said, saddened by the unexpected new of the death of one of his few friends. He had been in Afghanistan a year ago, hospitalized and near death after an ambush on an intelligence mission had gone wrong. “I am sorry to hear that. I was in Afghanistan at the time. What happened?”

 

“Ovarian cancer. By the time it was diagnosed, it was already in the last stage and too late for any medical intervention.”

 

“My condolences,” John said.

 

“She slipped away quietly three days after the diagnosis. In some ways, it was a blessing in disguise. My mother would have been devastated at losing her hair and beauty to chemotherapy.”

 

There was silence in the air both men lost in their thoughts of Nadia Belair. It was a blessing in disguise, John thought. Nadia would have rather put a bullet to her head than to go through the trauma of treatment, which had limited success, especially for late stage ovarian cancer.

 

“I am here to wait for Sherlock to sign the tax returns which I have prepared for him,” Colin broke the silence.

 

“You prepare tax returns for him?” John was green with envy. He had a hard time filing in his tax returns, trying to decide how honest he could be in declaring his income for the Inland Revenue. He had an informal agreement with Sherlock that he would share 20% to 50% of the earnings from Sherlock’s cases depending on his involvement in the cases. Sherlock was vague and not very interested in negotiating the fees for his cases. He chose his clients based on how challenging the case was, irrespective whether his client could pay or not. For those clients who were able to pay and valued discretion, Sherlock would be paid secretly in cash or by private cheque which made declaring tax returns very tricky indeed.

 

“Yes, Anthea used to do them for him,” Colin said. “It would be tax fraud if Sherlock failed to submit a return and declare his earnings. Plus I know lots of legal ways to claim benefits for a tax waiver. I could do your tax returns as well, if you want.” Colin added.

 

“Thanks for the offer Colin, “John said quickly. He had lots of grey income he did not want to declare even though he suspected Mycroft would know about the income and investments he accrued during his days as a spy. “I can file my own tax returns.”

 

The front door slammed and steps could be heard on the stairs. John looked round as the door leading to the living room opened.

 

“Sherlock. Your friend is here for you to sign your tax returns, “John waved his hand towards Colin.

 

“Tax returns? Just file it. There is no need for me to look at it,” Sherlock said as he removed his coat and scarf.

 

“Sherlock!” Colin said in a reproachful tone as if Sherlock had committed the ultimate sin. “You have to take a bigger interest in your finances.”

 

“What for? I have Mycroft and now you. You are a good accountant. I trust whatever you put up would be in my best interests.”

 

“Why don’t you leave the file behind? I will ensure Sherlock goes through the returns later,” John said as Colin looked as though he was going to cry in frustration at Sherlock’s refusal.

 

“Just leave the file behind. I’ll go through them later” Sherlock finally said, shaking his head with a soft smile. Colin hadn’t changed since his college days. He was always very careful with money and failing to take care of one’s finances was the number one sin in Colin’s world. He then spied the pie carrier on the table. “Oh, is that –“

 

“Yes, that is your favourite Apple, Cherry and Marzipan pie. I baked it this morning.” Colin was a good cook. After eating one of the pies he had baked in Cambridge, Sherlock would mysteriously appear in the kitchen whenever he was about to bake. Good ingredients were expensive and he was reluctant to bake often at University, as it would eat into his small allowance. Strangely enough when Sherlock had a craving for one of his pies, those expensive ingredients would appear in the kitchen as a silent plea for a pie.

 

Almost against his will, Sherlock moved towards the table holding the coveted treat when Colin snatched the pie carrier away.

 

“Promise me you will look through the tax returns, “Colin said, holding the pie carrier tightly as ransom. “If not….if not…..” Colin said, trying to think of a threat to ensure Sherlock’s compliance, “I would rather share the pie with the people in my office.” He gave a triumphant look at Sherlock while drawing himself up to his full height in a bid to look more threatening. Unfortunately, it still made him almost one head shorter than Sherlock. John thought Colin looked adorable, like a cute flurry animal trying to make itself look threatening to a bigger predator.

 

“You mean you will share it with Mycroft,” Sherlock scoffed. “Brother dear would never allow the pie to be shared with others, he would eat it all by himself. It would be bad for his diet.” Sherlock plucked the pie carrier from Colin’s hands.

 

John watched in interest as Sherlock promised to look through the boring tax returns. Colin finally satisfied took his leave after giving one more hard look at Sherlock.

 

“Hmm…..” Sherlock hummed happily as he went to the kitchen to cut the pie.

 

“Interesting character, that Colin” John commented as he watched Sherlock eating the pie, keeping the entire pie close to him with obviously no intention of sharing. “Not someone I would expect to be Mycroft’s PA. He looks more suited to be in the fashion or entertainment industry.”

 

“He is the perfect PA for Mycroft,” Sherlock said with his mouth full. “I chose him.”

 

John gave Sherlock a thoughtful look. He had a feeling that Sherlock was not sharing all the information regarding why he had went to so much trouble to ensure that his junior from Cambridge should be Mycroft’s PA.

 

 

 

**Somewhere in London**

 

“Right turn....”Sherlock shouted as John followed behind him into a small alley. Behind them they could hear the barks of several dogs and the shouting of Alpha supremacists who were gaining on them.

 

John followed Sherlock’s instructions, trusting him just like he would have trusted a fellow soldier to guard his back on the battlefield. Sherlock had memorised all the streets in London and he trusted Sherlock to get them out of the sticky situation.

 

After running for 10 minutes, running over rooftops and scaling several fences, they finally ditched their pursuers. Sherlock turned to face John but he suddenly lost his balance and fell backwards and landed on one of the rubbish filled metal bins littering the back alley. John, unable to stop his run in time, fell on top of Sherlock.

 

“I am sorry. Are you okay?” After catching his breath, John asked as he got off Sherlock and sat on the rubbish strewn dirty back alley.

 

“I’m okay.” Sherlock sat up slowly and rubbed the back of his head. “Lestrade should be on his way to raid the place by now” John shuddered as he remembered the overwhelming aroma of terrified Omegas in the warehouse he and Sherlock had infiltrated tonight. The human trafficking case had come from Mycroft himself. Although Sherlock had seemed reluctant to take on his brother’s case, both brothers knew that he would inevitably look into it. Sherlock knew that Mycroft would not trouble him unless it was of national importance, and a matter that the elder Holmes only trusted Sherlock to look into. This way Mycroft could keep a low profile while Sherlock investigated and New Scotland Yard could take credit for the arrests, all in order not to alarm the public that there were nefarious terrorist activities right under their noses. There had been an increase in the Alpha Supremacy activities in London lately and they were getting more serious, way beyond the normal street protests, gender rhetoric and vandalism. This time, Omegas and Omegas living as legal Betas were being targeted and kidnapped. The Omega population treated their gender status as a closely guarded secret. There were at least 50 kidnapped Omegas in the holding area they had just escaped from. The scale of the operation was far too big and elaborate to just be a random act by one group, which suggested that they were being generously funded and organized by someone else. Possibly by one of the larger international Alpha Supremacy Groups. Could there be a leak in the OPA, which held the Omega Register? Sherlock would have to check with Mycroft later to see whether the kidnapped Omegas had been registered or not, information which even New Scotland Yard could not access.

 

“Are you sure?” John leaned forward and asked anxiously. “You did take a hard knock.”

 

Sherlock looked up and then started to laugh merrily, pointing at John’s head.

 

“What? What’s wrong?” John asked. Could this uncontrolled laughter a weird side effect of concussion?

 

“Your…your…” Sherlock continued to laugh, unable to speak properly as he pointed at the banana peel on top of John’s head.

 

John was unable to get a coherent word from Sherlock who continued to laugh merrily. It was at this precise moment, his relationship with Sherlock changed from getting-to-know-you to I-want-to-know-you-a-lot-better. Enthralled by the sight of the younger man who was almost breathless from laughing, he leaned forward and gently brushed Sherlock’s hair from his face. He put a hand gently on the side of Sherlock’s face and stroked his cheek, his hair, and the side of his face along the jawline. He then kissed Sherlock on the mouth, with a banana peel still balancing precariously on his head.

 

 

 

It was like a scene from a movie if one could ignore that it took place in an abandoned rubbish strewn back alley. One moment, Sherlock was laughing merrily at the comical sight of a banana peel which had landed on top of John’s head, the next moment, he found himself being kissed by John. The kiss was feather-light, John’s lips just barely grazed over Sherlock’s lips. Suddenly Sherlock found himself on his feet and pressed against the wall, his arms pinned above his head and John’s free hand started to move down his back. Sherlock gave a small whimper and almost shivered as John’s hand left trails of fire in its wake.

 

He could feel John’s tongue tracing his bottom lip and then started to nibble his lip. Almost against his will, Sherlock opened his mouth, offering unrestricted access, a silent invitation for John to make the first tentative tongue contact. He felt John’s tongue exploring the inside his mouth slowly, sensuously, marking its territory and Sherlock responded to the tongue dance timidly. He gave a small moan of protest as John’s tongue withdrew from his mouth. Before Sherlock could catch his breath, his mind reeling from the burst of unknown excitement the kiss had evoked, he found himself kissed by John again. Again and again. Every kiss became harder and more intense and almost unconsciously, Sherlock spread his legs and John started to rub himself against him. Even though at the back of his mind, Sherlock knew that they were making out in a public area, he was unable to stop John. In fact, he welcomed John’s attention. His wrists were released suddenly and all he could feel now were John’s hands on his waist and trailing up and down his arms and back.

 

John moved his mouth away from his lips and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock flushed as he saw the heat in John’s eyes. John’s hands moved slowly towards his shirt and started to unbutton it. In what seemed like no time at all, the front of his shirt was totally unbuttoned. Sherlock could feel the chill in the air but before he could say anything, he felt John’s warm palms on his naked chest. To his shame, Sherlock could not control himself and gave a small moan. He flushed at the wanton sound he made and started to shiver almost uncontrollably as John started kissing and licking his neck while one of his hands moved down from his chest, leaving another trail of fire in its wake until he reached the hard bulge below and started to rub against it. Very slowly he felt John start to unzip his trousers.

 

“No…” Sherlock pushed ineffectually against John whose weight was pinning him against the wall. He wanted John to stop but at the same time, he did not want John to stop whatever he was doing to his body. He gave another moan as John started to lick his nipples. Although he was for all intents and purposes, still fully dressed, he felt so naked with his shirt open and his bare chest pressed against John.

 

“Let me have you, Sherlock,” John whispered softly and breathed into Sherlock’s ear. He started to plant small kisses on Sherlock’s earlobe and behind his ear. He then licked the earlobe lightly and Sherlock let out little sounds of pleasure.

 

Almost on autopilot, Sherlock’s hands circled around John’s neck, pulling John closer to him. Sherlock lust clouded mind had forgotten that he was not in his bedroom and it seemed to have disregarded the fact that he was making out in a public area where anyone could catch them.

 

 

**Five metres away**

 

Two MI5 Agents entering the back alley stared open-mouthed and with mounting horror as they advanced towards John and Sherlock. They were almost on top of the oblivious couple who were making out in the open.

 

“They are…they are…..” MI5 Agent 1 stammered as he held his phone, which was recording the incident for posterity.

 

“Shush…..” MI5 Agent 2 whispered loudly pulling his comrade back to a safe distance. “We are getting too close to them.”

 

“But…..but……they are going to have….have… sex…..” MI5 Agent 1 gasped in horror. After the fiasco of failing to keep Sherlock under surveillance during the killer cabbie incident, he knew he was very close to being sent undercover as the latest concubine of a well-known drug lord who had a fetish for cross-dressing males. Fortunately, after having been sent on a retraining course he had been given one last chance to redeem himself. But as he watched the unfolding scene in front of him he had a horrible feeling he might have to start picking out dresses to wear for his next mission. “Mr Holmes will kill us if he knows what happening to subject “Midget”. I am not going to be the bearer of bad news. The messenger has a tendency to be shot.”

 

MI5 Agent 2 gave a panicked look at his partner. He could see his future career plans taking a similar route to his companions. Looking around at the rubbish-strewn ground his eyes zeroed in on an apple core lying in the dirt. Picking it up, he gave a few practice swings with his right arm. Then like a professional cricket bowler, he threw the apple core, which travelled a curve path through the air and hit the large metal rubbish bin next to the rather hot and bothered couple with a loud clang.

 

 

**Back alley somewhere in London**

 

_CLANG!_

 

The loud noise startled both John and Sherlock who were literally on the verge on making love for the first time in a dirty London back alley.

 

John tensed and shifted from aroused potential lover to protective bodyguard in an instant, shifting his body to cover his partner more fully his eyes quickly scanned the area for any dangers, sensing nothing he perceived as an immediate threat he pulled back from the other man and ran his fingers through his hair as his common sense came back to him in a rush. Shit! He almost made love with Mycroft’s brother in a _public_ unsecured area. John’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the environment again. Someone had interrupted their little rendezvous. Probably some of Mycroft’s minions. For once, he was thankful that Mycroft’s men were around to ensure that things had not gone too far. He could _almost_ forgive them for losing Sherlock on the cabbie case. Emphasis on the _almost_.

 

Sherlock was out of breath, and a little dazed but the loud clang had cleared the confused dreamlike state in his mind. He did not know whether he should be happy that they had been interrupted or not. With a hot flush, he quickly buttoned up his shirt, pulling one of the buttons off in his haste to cover up. After that, he pulled the zipper up on his trousers. Sherlock finally looked up once he ensured that he was fully presentable. A multitude of thoughts ran around in his head, why had John stopped? Had he done something wrong? Had John not liked kissing him? He could feel the questions forming in the back of his throat but they wouldn’t come out. . He just stared mutely at John.

 

John sensing Sherlock’s confusion and insecurity leaned close putting his hands on the wall on either side of the other man.

 

“I am sorry, Sherlock,” John said. “I don’t know what came over me.” He knew that he had to have the younger man in his bed. But not now. Not in a dirty back alley in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock deserved to be wooed and be gently initiated into the art of lovemaking. “I want to court you properly. You deserve to be courted properly.”

 

John stood up and pulled Sherlock gently away from the wall. The moment Sherlock stood up straight; he pushed John’s hand away and dusted his coat sleeve of a stray fleck of dust and started walking towards the entrance of the back alley.

 

As John and Sherlock made their way out to the main road, John wondered he had destroyed the comfortable friendship he had established with Sherlock. Suddenly, John felt a hand gripping his hand tightly and his heart sung when he heard the soft words in the air.

 

“Yes, I want to be courted properly.”

 

 

 

**Unknown MI5 Office, Head Surveillance Unit (Project Midget)**

 

Matthew Morris, Head of the Surveillance Unit in charge of ‘Project Midget‘ could feel the pulsating veins in his left temple. He pulled out a drawer and took out a pill bottle. He unscrewed the top and poured out two white pills. Popping them in his mouth he took a sip of water. The surveillance unit had a flat organisational structure and he had been elated when the senior management decided to create one more Head post. He had been so pleased that he had totally missed the signs of sympathy directed towards him by his colleagues. Once he had been informed as to just what his new position entailed he knew that he must have offended someone higher up. His new post was as head of the section responsible for the surveillance and protection of Mr Holmes’s younger brother.

 

Morris re-read the surveillance report on his desk as the two MI5 agents stood before him nervously.

 

“What is this rubbish you have submitted?” Morris demanded. He had stuck his neck out for the two MI5 Agents in front of him after the cabbie fiasco. And this was how they repaid him? With this drivel masquerading as a surveillance report?

 

“Sir,” MI5 Agent 1 said timidly, “we tried to be as accurate as possible. We even have a video recording of the incident.”

 

“We went through the video recording several times to ensure that we did not miss anything important,” MI5 Agent 2 added.

 

Morris took several deep breaths, a technique his yoga instructor had taught him to deal with stressful situations.

 

“ _The Doctor’s tongue traced Midget’s bottom lip and started to nibble on it. Midget opened his mouth, offering unrestricted access, a silent invitation for the Doctor to make the first tentative tongue contact._ ” Morris read the report aloud. “You call this a surveillance report? Both of you have missed your true calling as porn writers. I want a surveillance report not smut!”

 

“But you said it is important to be as accurate and detailed as possible, Sir,” MI5 Agent 1 blurted out. “You said that after we submitted our last report there were not enough details.”

 

Morris decided that he must have committed several sins in his previous life to be burdened with the two bungling idiots in front of him.

 

“Do you know what would happen if Mr Holmes saw this report?” Morris demanded.

 

“A bit not good?” MI5 Agent 2 asked.

 

“There are always opening at MI6 for you two. A nice suicide mission,” Morris mused.

 

“Then what do we write in the surveillance report?” MI5 Agent 1 asked shakily, visions of dying heroically for the Queen and Country swimming in his head after being re-deployed to MI6.

 

Morris took out a red pen and slashed through page 2-11 of the surveillance report and replaced it with two words in bold – **THEY KISSED**.

 

“Both of you are dismissed,” Morris said. As the two MI5 Agents slowly made their way out of the office, Morris gave a small cough. “About that video clip. Forward me a copy.”

 

\------

 

**Unknown MI5 Canteen**

 

 

“Let me show you a video clip. It is so hot!” The agent said as he looked around surreptitiously before passing his phone to a fellow agent.

 

 

 

Author notes:

Please give a round of applause to Colin Belair. His story can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1769266).

Sadly, I do not possess a copy of the video clip the two MI5 Agents had taken.

I have my own blog where I archive my writings. I have just made a cover page for "Memories" which can be found at <http://peach-tart.com/memories>

If you visit the blog, you may get some hints where the story is going filed under My Musings. I do update my blog slightly earlier than AO3 as it is so much easier to update at my own blog. For some reason, AO3 always messed with the formatting. It could take me up to one hour just to upload to AO3 and to ensure that the formatting is correct.

  
 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events after THE KISS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my patient and long-suffering beta reader Megabat. Any mistakes found in the work are mine.

How Shall I Woo Thee

 

How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own?

Say in what tongue shall I tell of my love.

I who was fearless so timid have grown,

All that was eagle has turned into dove.

The path from the meadow that leads to the bars

Is more to me now than the path of the stars.

 

How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own,

Thou who art fair and as far as the moon?

Had I the strength of the torrent’s wild tone,

Had I the sweetness of warblers in June;

The strength and the sweetness might charm and persuade,

But neither have I my petition to aid.

How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own?

How shall I traverse the distance between My humble cot and your glorious throne?

How shall a clown gain the ear of a queen?

Oh teach me the tongue that shall please thee the best,

For till I have won thee my heart may not rest.

 

 _Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar_ , Paul Laurence Dunbar

 

* * *

 

 

**Park near Baker Street**

 

Sherlock sat alone on a bench in a secluded park near Baker Street. It had been three months since he and John had exposed the Omega kidnapping ring. Mycroft had confirmed that all the kidnapped Omegas had been listed in the Omega Register. This meant that there was a leak in the OPA and the possibility that the register itself had been compromised. There was an unwritten rule among the international community that the register was sacred and untouchable. Foreign agents found attempting to tamper with it would be executed immediately and it was considered grounds for a declaration of war against the country that sent the agents. Mycroft had been keeping the news of the possible compromise of the register quiet but it would only be a matter of time before it was leaked to the public. Most disturbingly, there was also news of Omega kidnapping rings in other countries across Europe, Asia and even in America. It seemed that no continent was safe. Sherlock would generally dismiss any international or political news as boring but even he could tell that the kidnapping rings were doing a good job of stirring up distrust between different countries. A global recession, an unexpected invasion by a megalomaniac despot, an accidental incursion of disputed lands – all of these incidents while disrupting to international accord could generally be solved by either sanctions, diplomacy, or money. But by adding accusations of tampering with the Omega Register by a foreign power and the whole world could be plunged into World War 3.

 

International politics was not Sherlock’s forte, that was more Mycroft’s domain, but even he could tell that recent developments had is brother very worried. But there was nothing he could do about recent developments, well not until he had more definitive information, so he put aside thoughts of international turmoil to think of happier things.

 

It was exactly three months ago today that John had declared his intention to court Sherlock. John had flatly refused to celebrate their anniversary in a restaurant and had stated that he would instead cook a dinner for Sherlock. After being ‘persuaded’ by John to clear the scientific equipment from the kitchen table, Sherlock had been literally kicked out the flat while John prepared dinner _without_ Sherlock being underfoot. Although Sherlock grumbled while on the way out of the flat, he was strangely moved by John insistence of preparing a romantic dinner for their anniversary. Irene Adler might have claimed that brainy was the new sexy. But in this age and time, a man willing to cook for his intended was even sexier as far as Sherlock was concerned.

 

Sherlock still could not believe that he was being courted. _Courted_ not dated. Archaic words like _wooing, courting_ and _suitors_ had all but disappeared from the vocabulary in modern society. He and John were not dating they were _courting_. John was not his boyfriend he was his _suitor_. Ever since John had declared his intentions, having even secured Mycroft’s permission as the Head of the Holmes Family to court Sherlock, John was being a complete gentleman, something that Sherlock felt both flattered and discontented with. Even since **THE KISS** in that dirty back alley, John had not touched him again except for a couple of chaste kisses. Sherlock was somewhat disappointed at the fact that John had steadfastly kept his hands to himself.

 

 _Courting_ with the end goal of _marriage_. Sherlock had offers of ‘dates’, ‘going steady’ from people who found him attractive and offers of ‘arranged marriages’ from Noble Families who wanted to cement their alliance with the Holmes family. But a _courtship_? A somewhat archaic but romantic notion that now only existed in romance novels and movies. John was apparently a real life romantic, not something the entertainment industry had concocted.

 

John turned out to be a very old fashioned along with being romantic, showering him with gifts. First, John had presented him an elaborate gemstone sentiment ring with a hidden message of love. It took Sherlock sometime before he managed to decipher it. The hidden message was disguised in the names the gemstones and their positioning within the setting of the ring, which included (D)iamond, (E)merald, (A)methyst, (R)uby, (E)merald, (S)apphire, and (T)opaz spelling out the word DEAREST.

 

Sherlock had in one of the rare occasions, seen John coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a bath towel hitched round his waist and his dog tags hanging from a ball chain round his neck. He realised that John must have noticed that he had stared at the dog tags for a long time. Because the next thing he knew, John had presented him with a small elaborately engraved locket. Which opened up to contain a miniature photo of John wearing his army uniform and a small elaborate wreath of intertwining hair from both John and Sherlock which John had painstakingly woven. Together with the locket, he was presented with a coin that John had sanded smooth on both sides and hand engraved with both his and Sherlock’s initials and drilled a hole in so that both the locket and coin could be worn on a chain, close to the heart.

 

Being both flustered and flattered by the attention given to him, Sherlock had confided in Colin, the only person he could trust who would not run and tattle to his brother at the first opportunity, even though he was Myrcroft’s PA. With Colin’s help, Sherlock had a gold curb bracelet with a lock commissioned from an exclusive private top-end jeweller. The jeweller was surprised at the old fashioned commission but he had happily produced a tastefully understated bracelet, which could be worn by the doctor. Sherlock held the sole key to the elaborate small lock at the end of the bracelet attached to the curb brace, a symbol that Sherlock held the key to John’s heart. It would be the first love token he would give to John, a response to John’s courtship.

 

The bracelet with the intricate lock cost a small fortune and almost wiped out his bank account. A bank account that Colin had persuaded Sherlock to set up to deposit the earnings from his consulting detective work. Colin had finally managed to convince him of the importance of being ‘financially independent’. Sherlock had never really given a second thought to where the money he used came from, which was primarily from the trust fund, which Mycroft had full control over. But now after paying for the bracelet with his own money, which he had earned himself, Sherlock felt ridiculously pleased. It was a gift from _him_ , paid for by _his_ own money and not from the family coffers. Mycroft however, was not so not pleased with this new streak of independence that Sherlock was showing and had made his displeasure known, by trying to pressurise Sherlock into closing the account. Sherlock had however stuck to his guns and kept the bank account open. He liked the fact that he could now make purchases on his own without having to justify them to Mycroft first.

 

But…Sherlock worried his lower lip nervously. Would John still be interested in him if he knew all about Sherlock’s history, about his drug-filled past and his subsequent mental breakdown? Even now, he still had to see the psychiatrists at the Baskerville Facility in Dartmoor every three months. It was part of the deal he had struck with Mycroft for allowing him to live on his own at Baker Street. Sherlock hated the regular visits to the Baskerville Hospital. He constantly fought with the psychiatrists at the facility and there was an air of mutual distrust and even hatred between them. They thought he was unstable and unpredictable and that he should not be allowed out as he could be a considered a danger to himself and those around him. The kindest term he ever heard from the psychiatrists was that he was ‘damaged’. Would John still find him attractive when he found out about the true Sherlock, a side of himself he had carefully hidden away from John? Would John still love a man who had a drug-filled past and holes in his memory?

 

Nearby a small girl was playing by herself, picking up leaves and throwing them in the air. Sherlock smiled at the sight. He used to do that when he was a little child. The girl looked up and gave a big smile to Sherlock. She ran towards him and would have fallen if he had not reached out a hand to steady her.

 

“Thank you, sir,” the little girl said.

 

“Where are your parents?” Sherlock asked, frowning as he looked around and saw no signs of adults. It was irresponsible to leave a young child unattended.

 

“Someone told me to tell you something, sir,” the girl whispered to him. Perhaps it was a new and rather novel method employed by his Homeless Network to pass him messages?

 

Sherlock leaned forward so that he could hear the little girl’s words clearly.

 

“ _Daddy is very unhappy with you, Sherlock_ ,” the girl whispered to him and Sherlock’s face turned as white as sheet when he heard the words. Before he could question her, the little girl abruptly skipped off. Sherlock tried to stand up but fell back to the bench, as he suddenly felt dizzy, dark flickering images swirling before his eyes. A murder scene. A disembodied body. A dancing puppet. Messages scribbled in blood on the walls and floor.

 

_Daddy is very unhappy with you, Sherlock_

_Daddy is very unhappy with you, Sherlock_

_Daddy is very unhappy with you, Sherlock_

 

\----

 

**221B Baker Street**

 

John was humming as he put the finishing touches to the flat. The romantic dinner setup would have Sherlock eating out of his hand he was sure. He had struck up a quick friendship with Mycroft’s new PA. Although he hated dealing with Mycroft, for some strange reason, he got along well with the man’s PAs, well at least those who actually managed to work for the man for more than a week. Anthea was the only PA, who up until now anyway, had survived for any length of time under Mycroft’s tyranny. But John had the feeling that Colin would be staying on as Mycroft’s PA for quite a while but perhaps not for the same reason as Anthea. He had not missed the heated interactions between Mycroft and Colin. There was a mutual attraction, which positively sizzled like an electric current between them. Maybe Sherlock had been playing a matchmaker when he had ensured that Colin would replace Anthea as Mycroft’s new assistant. Colin had proved to be a great friend and had turned out to be a godsend as he started planning the dinner for Sherlock. It turned out the man was a good cook and promised to help in the preparation of a desert that would, in his words, “blow Sherlock’s mind”. John sniggered. Mycroft was probably very angry with him at the moment, due to the fact that he had all but hijacked his PA to help him court Sherlock.

 

Even though Mycroft had granted John permission to court Sherlock, he knew that the man expected him to fail no matter how conciliatory he had looked on the surface as he had listened to John’s request.

 

\---

 

 _**One Day After** _ **THE KISS**

 

_**221B Baker Street** _

 

 _John had actually been surprised that the MI5 Agents hadn’t dragged him off at the first opportunity after_ **THE KISS** _in the dirty back alley. It turned out the alley was one of the few places in London that had no CCTVs cameras, add to that the fact that perhaps the bumbling MI5 agents assigned to follow Sherlock had learnt the art of reporting exactly what their superior wanted to hear, rather than what actually happened. A descriptive report with negative news delivered to Mycroft Holmes would not help one in climbing the promotion ladder. John had decided it would be better to meet with Mycroft before word of_ **THE KISS** _reached him, so he sent off a text and in less than five minutes, a black car pulled up outside Baker Street._

 

_“Do you want me to come along with you?” Sherlock hovered, as John got ready to leave the flat._

 

_“No, Sherlock,” John gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I can deal with Mycroft myself. I would like to seek his permission to court you without you two fighting with each other.”_

 

_“But…” Sherlock said, a worried look on his face._

 

_“No buts, Sherlock,” John said. ‘Trust me. I know how to deal with Mycroft on my own.”_

 

**_Mycroft’s Residence, undisclosed_ _location_**

 

_Swanky. That was John’s first thought as he stepped into the mausoleum that passed as Mycroft’s residence on the outskirts of London. The Persian carpet he stepped on probably cost more than the combined value of all the items in the Baker Street flat. It was definitely a step above an abandoned warehouse or some nameless government office. However the sumptuous surroundings did not imbue him with confidence, John was not totally sure if he would end up at the bottom of the Thames River or not after the conversation he was about to have with Mycroft. Taking a deep breath John opened the door and stepped into the study._

 

_“Do take a seat, John,” Mycroft said gesturing to the seat in front of the desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Mycroft was a busy man he had governments to crash, elections to rig and politicians to bully. However, he was intrigued enough to acquiesce to John’s request for a meeting. He knew John would not willingly seek him out after the fiasco in Afghanistan. Although it was never spoken aloud, Mycroft knew that John had laid part of the blame for what had happened on that mission on his shoulders. It was a completely unjustifiable conclusion in Mycroft’s opinion._

 

_The smug bastard, John thought as he settled down on the comfortable chair. He was really going to enjoy informing the man of his intentions._

 

_“I know you’re a busy man so let’s get straight to the point. I would like to formally inform you of my intention to court Sherlock,” John said. “I guess as Head of the Holmes Family, I would need to seek your permission. But I think that we both know Sherlock well enough to know that he will do whatever he wants irrespective whether you grant your permission or not. Just so you know he has already accepted my proposal of courtship.”_

 

_At the words, Mycroft had a coughing fit. John had the distinct pleasure of seeing Mycroft’s face turning from white to red to green to blue and finally to a thunderous black colour. It was a pity that he did not have the foresight to take out his camera phone and record the sight of Mycroft doing a good imitation of a man trying to perform the ancient Chinese dramatic art of face-changing. It would be a sure hit on YouTube._

 

 **Court? Sherlock?** _Mycroft for once was stunned into silence._

 

_“Court? Sherlock? You???” Mycroft finally croaked._

 

_“Yes, court. I know it is a quaint custom. Not even the Noble Families and Elites practice it anymore. Of course, people of your status would rather practice arranged marriages and strategic alliances. Which is really barbaric and so unromantic if one thinks about it, John tutted. He was really enjoying himself. It was no mean feat, rendering Mycroft totally speechless. He could literally see smoke coming out of the other man’s ears._

 

 _Mycroft had a sinking feeling in his stomach and felt like a lord being informed that he had trusted his naive, innocent daughter to a Big Bad Wolf. He had chosen John Watson to help rein in Sherlock’s wilder instincts and possibly as a teacher of sexual arts if Sherlock had wanted to explore. Although he and John had had their differences in the past and he was fully aware of the man’s chequered past. He knew that strangely enough, John had a peculiar code of honour. He would not harm an innocent. Mycroft believed that John would not use Sherlock’s innocence and naiveté in matters of heart against him. In fact, Mycroft had trusted John because of the fact that he was an outsider and not part of the Elites and thus there would be no concerns regarding entrapping Sherlock into an unwilling marriage. In fact, Mycroft had envisioned that Sherlock and John would split amicably once they were sick of each other. Sherlock would learn whatever he could from John and John would keep an eye on Sherlock. The best part was that John was doing it free of charge as John was on unpaid leave so the British government wouldn’t have to pay him a single penny. Jesus, Mycroft smacked his head figuratively. He sounded like his penny-pinching PA. Colin had volunteered enthusiastically, on his second day on the job, to audit the expense accounts of both MI5 and MI6. Pro Bono. Colin’s face had literally_ **glowed** _at the thought of examining the accounts. Mycroft gave himself a mental shake; there were more important matters than Colin’s auditing fantasies. The elder Holmes could not wrap his mind around the words_ **court** _and_ **Sherlock** _being used in the same sentence._

 

_“What makes you think I would even listen to you? Let alone grant you permission to co....court Sherlock? Are you out of your mind? This is the 21st century and not the 18th century.”_

 

_“Romance is dead,” John said mournfully. “What has happened to old fashion courtship where couples got to know each other better before marriage?”_

 

 _“_ **Marriage???** _” Mycroft literally squeaked. Mycroft looked around wildly. He needed a stiff drink. Several stiff drinks. Perhaps even a whole bottle._

 

_“Yes, marriage,” John said. Yes, he was definitely enjoying his conversation with Mycroft. In fact it was turning out to be the highlight of his day._

 

_Pulling a bottle and a glass from the drawer of the desk, Mycroft poured himself a large drink He had managed to hide this bottle from his PA. Colin was seemingly a closet Puritan and had tried to confiscate all of the Scotch in Mycroft’s office in Whitehall and in his study. Drinking alcohol outside of meals was a definite no-no in Colin’s book. Mycroft disagreed, sometimes a man needed alcohol to think clearly, and taking a deep breath he took a large swig from the glass closing his eyes as he swallowed. Mycroft’s brain, which had stalled on John’s declaration, jolted back to life as the amber liquid burned its way down his throat._

 

 _Settling back in his seat cradling the glass in his hand he regarded the other man. “Why should I grant you permission? After all you are from a different social class. And your credentials as a Don Juan does not make you good husband material, ‘Three Continents Watson,” isn’t that what they call you? Mycroft almost choked over the word ‘husband’._ **HUSBAND** _. Over his dead body. He took another long sip of his drink._

 

_“I have to disagree,” John said, shaking his finger. “My formidable prowess as ‘Three Continents Watson’ would ensure that Sherlock would be thoroughly satisfied. There would be no fear of straying from the marriage bed.”_

 

_Mycroft almost asphyxiated as the drink went down the wrong way._

 

_John waited patiently as Mycroft tried to recover from inhaling the fine Scotch._

 

_“You know me,” John said. “All the files you kept on me. They showed the good, the bad and the ugly side of me. You should know that I would not harm an innocent.” Sherlock was an innocent, so innocent that John wondered how it was possible. It was as if Sherlock had been cocooned in an isolation capsule and had never experienced or fully comprehended the darker side of human nature first hand. Sherlock had studied human nature and could elucidate on various human motivations but there was a strange naiveté in him that seemed to isolate him from being able to either understand or experience the heartache and all other negative human emotions. It was a strange dichotomy that made Sherlock so attractive, especially to predators who would love to tear away the veil of innocence. John wondered about Sherlock’s upbringing. From what he knew, Mycroft had almost singlehandedly brought Sherlock up and he was surprised that the ruthless bastard could actually bring up an innocent._

 

_Mycroft was distracted by an incoming message alert on his mobile phone. He glanced at it and saw that the message was from his PA. Why was he messaging him when he was just outside the study? Mycroft checked the message._

 

**Sherlock is on his way here. ETA 15 minutes.        CD**

 

_Oh. He better settled things with John before Sherlock arrived. He typed quickly and sent a message to his PA._

 

**Stop Sherlock from coming into the study. I need a PRIVATE talk with Dr Watson         MH**

 

_“You mean you would not harm an innocent knowingly”, Mycroft said as he looked up from his mobile phone._

 

_John could not control the twitch on his face. He would not harm an innocent intentionally. But he had harmed an innocent in the past._

 

 _“You have a colourful history. Interesting things that Sherlock does not have a clue about. What makes you think that Sherlock would not kick you out of the cosy flat you share if he got to know all about your_ chequered _past?”_

 

 _“_ Interesting _things that I have committed under your orders, Mycroft,” John said in a biting tone._

 

_Mycroft drummed his fingers on the study desk and stared at John._

 

_“But why? Why courtship? You do know what that entails, correct? Until Sherlock agrees to the marriage proposal, you would not be able to touch him. Why go all the trouble with a courtship that would tie you down with a husband? You could just be a ‘flatmates with benefits’ and walk away once you grow tired of the affair.”_

 

_“Why not? Sherlock is a great catch,” John shrugged his shoulders. “It’s time for me to settle down. As for my colourful past, I would share that with Sherlock at the right time. There would be no secrets between us.”_

 

_“Well then. I will grant you permission as the Head of the Holmes Family to court Sherlock. However, I will expect you to propose and Sherlock to accept the proposal within one year. After that, the courtship is over,” Mycroft said._

 

_John narrowed his eyes. Mycroft was a manipulative bastard and controlled every aspect of Sherlock’s life. He was well aware of the quarrel he had with Sherlock when Sherlock opened his own bank account. He expected Mycroft would want to choose Sherlock’s future wife or husband and that person would be someone whom he had total control over. John being a commoner with a questionable past would not be on that short list of candidates. In fact, John had expected outright rejection and even threats and he had prepared to fight his case and fully intended go ahead with his courtship with or without Mycroft’s permission. Something was not quite right. Mycroft acceded to John’s request too quickly._

 

_Mycroft took out another glass lifted the bottle of Scotch and poured a generous measure and pushed it towards John._

 

_“Toast?” Mycroft raised his glass._

 

_John stared at the glass and wondered whether Mycroft planned to poison him._

 

 _At this moment, there were sounds of loud footsteps outside the study and soon the door was thrown open. Sherlock walked in followed by his unrepentant PA. Mycroft gave a hard look to Colin. He had specifically ordered the man not to allow Sherlock in and apparently his dratted PA had done nothing at all to stop Sherlock from barging in. Mycroft was irritated; just whose side was Colin on exactly? Colin was_ **his** _PA and was supposed to be on Mycroft’s side but it increasingly looked as though he worked for Sherlock rather than for him. He’d had several misgivings about Anthea’s replacement and had yet to forgive the man for his latest transgression in instigating Sherlock to be ‘financially independent’._

 

_“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, “I agreed to John’s courtship and you have no right to...”_

 

_“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted Sherlock’s tirade and plastered a fake smile on his face even though he was already planning one thousand and one ways that he would torture John if he broke his baby brother’s heart when the whole courtship turned out to be a sham. “You may be pleased to know that I have granted Dr John Watson’s permission to court you. He is an upstanding citizen, a Medical Doctor and a prime Alpha specimen, although he is…vertically challenged. I would urge you to consider him as your prospective suitor.”_

 

_Sherlock blinked at Mycroft’s words as his mind struggled to process exactly what Mycroft had said. And when he finally processed the information, his eyes narrowed in surprise and then with suspicion. This was far too easy._

 

_“In fact,” Mycroft said as he took a drink from his glass, “I have just proposed a toast to our John here.”_

 

_Sherlock saw the glass in front of John. He lifted the glass and sniffed at the drink suspiciously. It smelt like Scotch. He took a sip and gagged. It tasted like Scotch._

 

_“Scotch?” Sherlock asked._

 

_“Of course it is Scotch,” Mycroft chastised gently. “What did you expect? Poison?”_

 

_Since it was near lunch, John and Sherlock stayed at Mycroft’s residence for the meal. When they were about to leave, Mycroft deliberately took a long time and exaggerated his actions fussing over Sherlock, adjusting Sherlock’s coat and gloves. And before he wrapped the scarf around Sherlock’s neck, he ensured that he rubbed his face over it first so that Sherlock would be marked with Mycroft’s Alpha scent around his neck. Mycroft smirked as he threw a challenging look at John who was twitching and fighting his Alpha’s instincts to rip the tainted scarf from his potential mate’s neck. No Alpha could tolerate another Alphas scent on their Omegas neck, Mycroft’s action was a deliberate incursion into what was now considered John’s domain._

 

_After John and Sherlock left, Mycroft turned and looked at Colin._

 

_“Inform MI5 to upgrade Dr Watson’s surveillance. Grade Three Active.” It was for John’s protection. A young Victor Trevor had asked for his permission to date Sherlock a few years ago. He had promised to think it over and had not given an affirmative answer right away. A few days later, the young man was found murdered. There were no direct evidence but the murder bore all the signs of having been instigated by his Arch Enemy, a sign of his displeasure that someone had intruded on what he regarded as his private property._

 

_“Yes, Mr Holmes,” Colin whipped out his trusty notebook and copied down the instructions like a diligent PA._

 

_At least Colin was good at following some of his instructions, Mycroft thought darkly, at least when they did not concern Sherlock. They needed to have a talk, a very long talk about Colin’s allegiance and loyalty and a very strong reminder about who actually signed Colin’s pay cheques._

 

_“Colin, we need to talk about you….” Mycroft started and was immediately interrupted by Colin._

 

_“Mr Holmes,” Colin said with a frown on his face as he put his notebook away. “I noticed that there is a bottle of Scotch in your study. I did a stocktake last week and we have a total of 82 bottles of Scotch in the wine cellar. Where did the extra bottle come from?”_

 

_Uh-oh. Busted._

 

_\----_

 

**Present day, Park near Baker Street**

 

Sherlock blacked out momentarily. His face blanched so terribly that Mycroft’s minions who normally kept out of sight rushed to him in alarm.

 

“Are you alright, Mr Holmes?” Agent 1 asked. He noted with alarm that Sherlock would have fallen off the bench if he had not helped to steady him.

 

“Perhaps we should get an ambulance?” Agent 2 said, taking his phone out.

 

“No!” Sherlock said sharply. “I skipped my lunch earlier which is the reason I am a little lightheaded.” Sherlock looked around and found no sign of the little girl who had passed him the message.

 

“Did you see where the little girl went?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Little girl?” Agent 1 repeated confused.

 

“Yes, a little girl who was playing by herself near me earlier,” Sherlock said impatiently and waved off the agent’s help as he got up from the bench. “About 7 years old. Blond hair tied into a ponytail. Wearing a blue dress.”

 

“I think she must have run off,” Agent 1 said. He honestly had not seen any child playing near Sherlock.

 

After assuring the agents he was all right and threatening them to not to put this fainting episode into the report, Sherlock made his way back to the Baker Street flat. “Did you see a little girl?” Agent 1 asked as they resumed their surveillance from a distance.

 

“No, I have no idea what Mr Holmes is talking about,” Agent 2 said. “Mr Holmes was by himself in the park. Although….” The Agent hesitated. He was too far away to be sure. “I thought I saw his lips moving as if he was talking to himself.”

 

\------

 

Author's notes:

 

I have my own blog where I share previews, thoughts and progress of the story under Musings. I update my blog just slightly earlier because it sometimes takes me hours to update in AO3. My blog is  <http://peach-tart.com/>

 

If you are curious how John's curb bracelet would look like, I have uploaded some pictures at my blog here - <http://peach-tart.com/bracelet>

 

I also have my own tumblr blog  - <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress in courtship. 
> 
> Once again, a very big thank you to my beta reader, Megabat who has offered invaluable advice.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

 

 _Sonnet 18_ , William Shakespeare

 

* * *

 

 

 

**221B Baker Street Living Room**

 

The living room in 221B Baker Street had been transformed, from a relatively common looking living room, into a romantic enclave. A table for two had been placed in the center of the room. A white tablecloth had been draped elegantly over the table. John had shown absolutely no shame in ‘borrowing’ the expensive crystal glasses, fancy plates, napkins and silverware, which he had laid out on the dinner table, from Mycroft’s residence. It had been a long time since he had to set a formal table and he’d had to search for last minute help on the internet to get the placement of the cutlery just right. He scanned the places settings checking that the cutlery was arranged correctly with the utensils for the first course furthest away from the plate and the utensils for the later courses closer to the plate.

 

The overhead lights were dimmed and he had placed two long tapered candles in the silver candlesticks on the table. Additional candles were placed around the room to add more light and ambience. He then placed a vase of red roses directly next to the wine glasses. Lastly, he removed the rose petals from the last remaining rose and sprinkled them around the table.

 

Finally satisfied with his preparations John went to his room to change into something more formal instead of his normal fuzzy jumper. Once changed he made his way back to the living room and switched on the CD player which started to play a selection of soothing jazz music he had compiled.

 

He stood back and gave a quick look of the room and nodded in satisfaction. It really had been a long time since he had put so much effort into impressing another person. In the past he had employed similar tactics, but on those occasions it had been with the cold and calculated intention to seduce and retrieve relevant information or to blackmail his target. This would be the first time that he had invested so much thought and effort into wooing someone he actually had feelings for, with the ultimate intention of marriage.

 

Since his first meeting with Sherlock, he had found the younger man intriguing and extremely attractive. After his discharge from the service and his return from Afghanistan, John had genuinely wanted to settle down into a normal civilian life. However, he knew in his heart, he would be bored. He craved danger just like a drug addict craved their next fix. He had never even entertained the idea that he would want to settle down and possibly start a family with another person, especially someone from one of the Noble Families, and definitely not the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes. He had, on the spur of the moment in the alley, told Sherlock that he wanted to court him. The moment he spoke the words out loud he knew in his heart that he had made the best decision and taken the biggest gamble of his life. He had been elated when Sherlock said yes to his courtship proposal.

 

Courtship, the period in a couple’s relationship which preceded engagement and marriage. Strictly speaking, if John followed the antiquated courtship rituals to the letter, he would have to move out of their flat and they would need to be chaperoned when they met and there would be no physical contact allowed, not even a chaste kiss or the holding of hands would be permitted. Therefore it was fortunate that Sherlock was a Beta, which meant that the courtship rituals did not have to be followed so strictly. Ever since he had voiced his intentions towards Sherlock he had limited his physical contact with the other man to an occasional chaste kiss and handholding. In addition they technically already had chaperons if you counted the surveillance team that followed Sherlock around all the time and all the CCTV cameras in London.

 

John had really enjoyed seeing Mycroft so flustered by his request to court his little brother but at the same time, he had been surprised that Mycroft had ‘granted’ his permission so readily. He knew Mycroft well and to be honest he did not trust the man any further than he could throw him. And quite frankly, the thought of Mycroft being his future _brother-in-law_ was not something he looked forward to. He had still not figured out the real reason why Mycroft agreed to his request so quickly. John was not arrogant enough to consider himself as a suitable suitor for Mycroft’s younger brother. There must be something else, some other reason that Mycroft had in mind when he agreed to John’s request for permission to court Sherlock. John shook his head, he would mull over Mycroft’s motives some other time, for now he had other concerns on his mind. Like taking the next step in in his relationship with Sherlock.

 

The only downside to their courtship so far had been the fact that he was not _supposed_ to touch Sherlock at all. So apart from the odd chaste kisses and the handholding, nothing much had changed between them. Both Sherlock and he were frustrated by the self-imposed restraints and they were both ready for the next _physical_ step of their relationship. John was, however, reluctant to move on to the next step until they were engaged. If Sherlock was agreeable, today would be the day where they moved forward and became engaged. He could not wait to see Mycroft’s face when he informed him of the engagement.

 

John heard the footsteps on the stairs and tried to calm his rising nerves. Sherlock was back and it was time for their relationship to move forward.

 

 

\----

 

John was mesmerised by the sight in front of him. He swore that Sherlock did it on purpose and he was really glad that he had decided to have the anniversary dinner in their flat instead of a restaurant. The entire restaurant would come to a standstill at the sight in front of him.

 

He was not sure whether Sherlock was flirting with him on purpose or if it came naturally to him, but he was turning the dinner into an erotic spectacle. John was enraptured at the sight of a delicate flash of tongue as Sherlock slowly withdrew his silver fork from his mouth and gave a small moan of satisfaction as the food he tasted met his approval. A tiny lick was then given to the fork. Oh, how John wished he were that fork as he watched the entire procedure repeated again and again as Sherlock ate his dinner.

 

John had planned the anniversary dinner to be a romantic seduction. But at this moment, he was not sure whether he was the seducer or the seduced.

 

 

\---

 

Sherlock giggled to himself. Yes, giggled. He had consumed a copious amount of red wine and he felt as if he was floating on the clouds. Mycroft had warned him not to drink, especially in the presence of strangers and especially without Mycroft being present. Mycroft, Sherlock decided, was a spoilsport, after all John was not exactly a stranger, right? Sherlock felt so relaxed and comfortable that he did not want to move from the comfortable sofa that he had somehow ended up on. And John, his suitor, scratch that, his _fiancé_ , was now feeding him a delicious chocolate ice cream desert. This was the life, Sherlock giggled again. He did not even have to lift a finger to feed himself.

 

At the background, the music for Le Vie en rose came on. To Sherlock’s surprise, John stared into Sherlock’s eyes and started to sing in French.

 

_Des yeux qui font baisser les miens_

_Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche_

_Voilà le portrait sans retouche_

_De l’homme auquel j’appartiens_

 

_Quand il me prend dans ses bras I_

_l me parle tout bas_

_Je vois la vie en rose_

 

_Il me dit des mots d’amour_

_Des mots de tous les jours_

_Et ça me fait quelque chose_

 

_Il est entré dans mon coeur_

_Une part de bonheur_

_Dont je connais la cause_

 

_C’est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie_

_Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie_

 

_Et dès que je l’aperçois_

_Alors je sens en moi_

_Mon coeur qui bat_

 

_Des nuits d’amour à plus finir_

_Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place_

_Les ennuis, les chagrins s’effacent_

_Heureux, heureux à en mourir_

 

_Quand il me prend dans ses bras_

_Il me parle tout bas_

_Je vois la vie en rose_

 

_Il me dit des mots d’amour_

_Des mots de tous les jours_

_Et ça me fait quelque chose_

 

_Il est entré dans mon coeur_

_Une part de bonheur_

_Dont je connais la cause_

 

_C’est toi pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie I_

_l me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie_

_Et dès que je l’aperçois_

 

_Alors je sens en moi_

_Mon coeur qui bat_

 

 

Although at the back of his mind, Sherlock was nitpicking the atrocious pronunciation, which was butchering the French language, Sherlock found that he was unable to move his eyes away from John’s.

 

“That’s very nice, John,” Sherlock said, for once being tactful enough not to voice out the mistakes made by the singer. “You are a man of many talents.”

 

“My reputation as Three Continents Watson has armed me with many different social skills, enabling me to move freely in high society. Trust me, I would not shame you in front of your snotty relatives.” John said. John had kept his word and he had shared the details of his dark past as an undercover agent with Sherlock. He had expected the younger man to be disgusted, and possibly even putting an end to their courtship. Instead, Sherlock had held onto his hand and listened to him wordlessly as he confessed night after night of all the sins he had committed in the past, how he had utilised blackmail and murder in his career as an undercover agent. Despite the numerous horrific acts he confessed to, Sherlock had not been judgmental. There was only one last sin he had yet to confess to. The final sin of his past that could possibly drive Sherlock away. John knew he could never walk away from the only person who knew all his sins and had not walked out on him. If Sherlock proved to be that person John would pull out all stops to ensure that Sherlock would be his life partner.

 

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” John said, holding out his hand as the music player started to play “Second Waltz” by Dimitri Shostakovich. “Would you do me the honour of dancing with me?”

 

Sherlock looked up and for a moment, he thought he heard voices whispering softly next to his ears.

 

_Sherlock, dancing is fun! Let me teach you how to dance the waltz._

_It is **1** 2 3, **1** 2 3, **1** 2 3. _

_Sherlock, just follow my lead and don’t step on me._

 

In front of him, John’s face started to morph into another person’s face, someone who was once important and dear to him. Sherlock blinked again and the vision was gone, all he saw now was John’s smiling face. Reaching up he took John’s hand and allowed his fiancé to pull him to his feet and into his arms.

 

“Well, it is my honour, Dr Watson,” Sherlock said.

 

 

\--

 

 

As the evening progressed John found himself forgetting the courtship rules limiting them to chaste contact. Things would have progressed further in the direction John had been hoping for if he hadn’t made the mistake of offering red wine to Sherlock. He discovered quite quickly that Sherlock could not hold his drink. In no time at all Sherlock had become quite tipsy and started giggling and climbing all over John. The best part of Sherlock being drunk was the fact that he lost some of his contrariness and instead quite happily obeyed all of John’s commands, every single one of them. John was heady with the power he had over Sherlock.

 

“Tell me you love me,” John whispered.

 

“I love you, John,” Sherlock giggled.

 

“Now kiss me, “John said.

 

Sherlock proceeded started to nibble on John’s neck and then started to plant small kisses up his neck moving towards his mouth while still managing to giggle the entire time. John’s would have a number of hickies in the morning and he would be proud to show them off.

 

Sherlock was an adorable drunk, John admitted fondly. But he was _still_ a drunk, and John’s code of honor would not let him take advantage of Sherlock while he was inebriated.

 

“Come, love,” John said as he helped Sherlock to get off the sofa. “Let me help you to your bed.”

 

Sherlock had followed John docilely to his bedroom. As John was about to leave after settling Sherlock, he heard a mumble of thanks from Sherlock.

 

"Thanks, Vic.”

 

 

\----

 

 

John washed his hands in the bathroom. It was a night to be remembered he smiled as he recalled the details of the romantic anniversary dinner. He had been elated that Sherlock had finally reciprocated his feelings and he had been moved by Sherlock’s gift of a curb bracelet, which he would wear proudly. Something tangible to show to others, proof that his intended had considered his courting favourably. There was something nagging at his back of his mind though. The momentarily glazed look on Sherlock’s face just before he accepted the invitation to dance. It was so quick that John had thought he had imagined it. But there was something both unnerving and familiar about the glazed look. John frowned, remembering how he had been overcome by a sudden surge of jealousy when Sherlock mumbled a word of thanks to someone called ‘Vic’. Who was this Vic? Even though their relationship had moved from flat mates to courting couple, there were still so many things he did not know about the younger man’s past. He thought he knew all the people Sherlock cared to associate with, a very small circle of ‘close acquaintances’ and there was no one in that group called ‘Vic’. But apparently this Vic was a close enough acquaintance of Sherlock’s that had danced with him.

 

John tried to suppress his Alpha instincts and the surge of jealousy the discovery had brought up, he resisted the urge to march back into Sherlock’s bedroom to mark his _mate_. Even though Sherlock was a Beta, he was tempted to mark him like an Alpha would mark his Omega mate. He looked in the mirror and frowned. There was something wrong with the mirror and as he looked at it more carefully he felt a surge of uncontrolled anger, wanting to smash the offending item with his bare hands. The only thing stopping him was the fact that he did not want to wake up the sleeping occupant in the bedroom next door.

 

Bristling with anger, John stomped out of the bathroom and rummaged through the bookshelves in the living room until he located his phone. He went back to the bathroom and switched off the bathroom lights. With a deep breath, he switched on the flashlight and examined the bathroom inch and by inch and found a small glimmer reflected back to him on the ceiling. Lastly, almost with sharking hands, John switched on his phone. He tried to make a call and almost immediately, he heard a clicking noise on the connection, an indication that an electromagnetic field was interfering with the phones signal.

 

John walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him softly although he was tempted to slam the door until the hinges came off. He went up to his bedroom, grabbed his coat and made his way down the stairs. He opened the front door and stepped out onto the street closing the door behind him. It was late evening on an extremely cold night and he was the only visible person in Baker Street although he knew that Mycroft’s minions were probably hidden somewhere monitoring the flat. John looked down deliberately as he knew that if he caught sight of any them at the moment, he would quite happily kill them with his bare hands.

 

John took out his phone and dialed.

 

“Hello?” A sleepy male voice answered the call.

 

“You bastard!” John shouted into the phone, not caring that Mycroft’s minions could probably hear him from wherever they were hiding.

 

"John?” The sleepy voice was now suddenly sharp and alert with worry. “Has anything happened? Sherlock….”

 

“Sherlock told me that you respected his privacy and that you did not place any hidden cameras in the flat. I should have known better than to trust you. How dare you? Hidden cameras in the bathroom?” John railed at Mycroft over phone.

 

“Cameras? What cameras?” the other voice on the other side of the mobile phone answered.

 

“Claiming ignorance? I’m an ex-Agent, Mycroft. Do you think you could get away with installing cameras inside the flat without me noticing them sooner or later? I should not have trusted…”

 

“John,” the voice on the other side of the mobile phone interrupted with a sharp tone, “I did not ask anyone to install any cameras inside the flat. I assured Sherlock that his private sanctuary would remain off limits and I have kept my word. I will be sending a team down.”

 

John stared at the mobile phone as Mycroft cut off the line abruptly, a cold feeling of fear running through him. Something was very wrong.

 

 

\----

 

 

Author’s notes:

 

I decided to get John to sing a love song to Sherlock  I think anyone will swoon if you have someone looking into your eyes while singing the song). The song John sings to Sherlock is _La Vie En Rose_. I have been inspired by this video clip featuring Andrea Bocelli which is found here [http://peach-tart.com/musings/lovesong ](http://peach-tart.com/musings/lovesong)

 

For the dancing scene, I have chosen ‘Second Waltz’ because this piece reminded me of bygone days where the Czar and the Russian nobles would hold their balls and dinner parties in a lavish manner while the peasants outside were starving. The music has an Eastern European ‘vibe’ in it and I thought it apt to serve as a hint of things to come later where Sherlock ended up as a prisoner in Eastern Europe. The East Wind is coming. You can refer to the music here <http://peach-tart.com/waltz>

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kick me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Sherlock's dreamscape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please READ the warnings/tags of the story and note the new 'pseudo bestiality' I have added.

“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.”

 

Virginia Woolf

 

* * *

 

 

A very big thank you to [Megabat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat) and [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) for helping to beta read this chapter. Sorry to have taken such a long time to update this chapter.

 

* * *

 

 

**211B Baker Street**

 

“We found 52 microphones and cameras in various parts of the flat,” Mycroft said, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. After receiving the angry call accusing him of spying on Sherlock and John in the flat, he had sent a team down to 221b immediately. They had spent the remainder of the night sweeping the entire building for bugs. By the time Sherlock had woken, the team had found a multitude of microphones and cameras throughout the flat, the majority of them in Sherlock’s bedroom. Even John’s bedroom and Mrs. Hudson’s living quarters were not spared.

 

Sherlock was white-faced and quiet in the wake of the sweep and the subsequent recovery of the hidden surveillance equipment. He picked up one of the recovered cameras and examined it closely.

 

“These were placed in the flat after John moved in,” Sherlock said as he looked at the manufacturing date engraved on the camera. “The person behind this must have hired professionals to install the equipment. Professionals who should know better than to use equipment manufactured and used almost exclusively in Eastern Europe. So I would say that it was done on purpose, whoever ordered this wanted us to know where the threat was coming from.”

 

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and it was obvious that there was a wordless conversation going on between the two Holmes brothers. John was becoming increasingly annoyed about the fact that the brothers were obviously privy to information that he was not aware of.

 

“So what? Who is behind this?” John demanded, frustrated and angry at the invasion of privacy that had ruined the end of the romantic evening he had so carefully planned had come to an end.

 

“Jim Moriarty,” Mycroft said, “We have received intelligence to suggest that he is from Eastern Europe, he is the right hand man of someone we have codenamed ‘Werewolf’. As for you, Sherlock, I want you to drop whatever case it is that you are investigating that is suspected to be linked to Jim Moriarty.”

 

Jim Moriarty? Sherlock’s mind whirled at the information. He had always wanted to investigate the mysterious ‘Werewolf’, the puppet master who allegedly controlled most of the Eastern European regimes. However, every time there was even a hint that ‘Werewolf’ was involved in any of the cases he got from Mycroft, his brother would forbid Sherlock from pursuing the case any further. However, Sherlock wasn’t willing to give up the opportunity to look into this Jim Moriarty.

 

“Mycroft, I –” Sherlock started.

 

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in his Alpha Dominant voice.

 

John stared at the two Holmes brothers, taken aback by the turn of events. Mycroft would cajole, nag and even scold Sherlock. But never once did he use his biological advantage as an Alpha and Head of the Family to compel Sherlock to obey him. The air was thick with dominant Alpha pheromones enhancing the compulsion to obey. Even though John himself was a strong Alpha, he felt the urge to obey Mycroft. As a Beta, Sherlock would have no chance against Mycroft.

 

“Yes, Mycroft,” Sherlock finally said, his eyes downcast, an obvious sign of submission and obedience to the Head of the Family.

 

“Remember our agreement when you moved to Baker Street. I am sure you don’t want to be taken back to the family estate like an errant child.” Mycroft shot a hard look at his younger brother, still using his inherent dominance to get his point across.

 

“Sherlock is not a child and he’s capable of -” John said, disturbed by the scene in front of him.

 

“Silence,” Mycroft said, still staring hard at Sherlock.

 

“I will submit and obey,” Sherlock intoned the traditional words of obedience to his older brother.

 

“Good. By the way, get ready for a short family reunion with Uncle Rudy. He misses you and wants to see you,” Mycroft said in a more pleasant tone, satisfied that his younger brother had yielded to his wishes.

 

“Uncle Rudy? Again?” Sherlock looked up, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Uncle Rudy from Dublin? The eccentric uncle with the cross dressing fetish that Sherlock had told him about. Sherlock had told him that he visited Uncle Rudy once every three months. John knew that Sherlock had just returned from a visit under a month ago. He had never invited John to meet his uncle and John had never pressed to see him. He figured if Sherlock wanted him to meet the man he would introduce them eventually.

 

“Perhaps we can go together –“ John said.

 

“I am afraid not, John,” Mycroft said. “Uncle Rudy is a recluse and does not welcome strangers.”

 

“I will go and pack,” Sherlock said in a subdued voice.

 

“Tell me when you have arranged the visit.” John watched as Sherlock headed for his room, noting the slumped shoulders and the obvious reluctance in his actions. Something was wrong here and John Watson was determined to find out what it was.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock had always preferred playing music from the Romantic era – Beethoven, Paganini, Schubert, Brahms, Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn. John knew that something was disturbing Sherlock when he started to play Bach, day and night. He looked at clock on the mantelpiece and found that it was already three in the morning. Sherlock had been playing non-stop for the past few hours, stopping only briefly when John had forced him to eat his dinner, which he only managed a few meager mouthfuls of before declaring abruptly that he was full.

 

“Bach again?” John asked. “Why the change in taste? And why the sudden interest in Baroque pieces? I thought you insisted that the best music was from the Romantic era.”

 

Sherlock put his violin down and walked to the window, staring outside.

 

“Bach is good for thinking,” Sherlock said. “Studies have indicated that certain type of music help with spatial-temporal reasoning. Most people prefer Mozart with his 60 beats per minute beat pattern as it affects the amplitude and frequency of brain waves. It regulates the breathing rate and electrical resistance of the skin as a result of the influence on the hormone system. This in turn leads to an increase in blood pressure and heart rate which allows the brain to focus and process greater amounts of information in less time as it stimulates the right and left hemispheres of the brain at the same time. My personal preference is Bach, though. Mozart is too cheerful and frivolous for my taste.”

 

John was lost at Sherlock’s long explanation. But he remembered back to his school days, his Maths teacher had sworn that listening to music would help improve his concentration. Perhaps he should have listened to his teacher. It could have saved him a lot of grief as he struggled through his Maths lessons.

 

“So, what are you thinking?” John finally asked. He had been tiptoeing around Sherlock since the discovery of the surveillance equipment in the flat. “Are you worried about the bugs we found?”

 

“No,” Sherlock turned and sat on his chair, opposite John. “Now that we have discovered the bugs, there will be no repeat incident. Mycroft handled the matter so there’s nothing to worry about on that front. I’m merely cleaning my Mind Palace. Bach helps me to patrol the corridors and weed out all the irrelevant data.”

 

“Something is bothering you, Sherlock,” John said as he noted the black circles under the other mans eyes. “You’re not sleeping, you hardly eat and you have been playing Bach so much that even the neighbours have complained. Tell me what is bothering you. We can deal with the problem as a couple.”

 

“The monsters are roaming in the Mind Palace,” Sherlock said softly, not answering to John’s plea. “I need to clear them out.”

 

“What monsters?” John asked, bewildered by Sherlock’s bizarre response.

 

He stood up and moved closer to Sherlock. He knelt down and looked into his fiancés downcast eyes. He was getting worried, Sherlock wasn’t making any sense and if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that the man had taken drugs. Sherlock had shared the information that in his youth he had experimented with recreational drugs. The ‘stupidity of youth’, Sherlock had said derisively and declared that he had not made such a stupid mistake again.

 

As if he was aware of John considering the possibility that he had taken something, Sherlock looked up and said sharply, “I haven’t taken anything illegal, John. The monsters are manifestations of some puzzles I can’t solve at the moment. Once I have the solution, they will disappear.”

 

“Puzzles? You mean your cases? I thought you said that you already had the answers to them. In fact, you said that the answers were so obvious that a three-year-old could have solved them,” John said, slightly relieved that Sherlock seemed to have shaken himself out of his lethargic mood. “I’m worried about you, Sherlock,” John said.

 

“Of what?” Sherlock said in a peeved tone. “There is nothing wrong with me. I am just bored out of my mind since London’s criminal classes seem to have decided to concentrate on committing mundane crimes. They are so unimaginative.”

 

“Something is disturbing you,” John said gently. “You hardly sleep and when you do, you are plagued by terrible nightmares.”

 

“Nightmares?” Sherlock asked, taken aback. “What nightmares?”

 

“Don’t you remember anything? You have been having nightmares almost every night since the discovery of the bugs,” John said. He had discovered Sherlock’s nightmares quite by accident. He had been heading to the bathroom in the middle of the night, when he had heard Sherlock tossing and turning in his bed and whispering to himself. To begin with John had been loath to wake him, as he knew he would have trouble getting the other man back to sleep. So for the first few nights he had let the nightmares play out, hoping that they would gradually fade as the nights went on. However, the nightmares appeared to be getting more severe over the last few nights and John had heard Sherlock thrash about violently and call out in his sleep.

 

“I don’t dream,” Sherlock said defensively. “Dreaming is an exercise in futility. There is too much going on in my mind for such nonsense. ”

 

“Yes, you do,” John said. “You don’t remember your nightmares when you are awake? Perhaps I have been neglecting you with my locum work. Don’t you remember what happened last night?” Last night, John had woken up to Sherlock’s cries, they had been so fear filled that he had almost fallen down the stairs in his hurry to get to the other mans room.

 

“What happened last night?” Sherlock demanded, eyes wide almost as if he was afraid of John’s answers, and at the possible loss of control over his mind. It was obvious that Sherlock had no idea what John was talking about.

 

“You were screaming so loudly that even Mrs Hudson heard you. I found you in a corner of the room hugging that teddy bear that usually sits on your bed. When I tried to wake you up, you hit me. It took me a long time to get you back to your bed.”

 

Sherlock looked up and saw John’s black eye, why hadn’t he noticed that until now? It was something he would not have missed in the past.

 

“Did I…did I do that?” Sherlock said, touching John’s slightly swollen eye gingerly. “I am sorry, I truly didn’t mean to hit you.”

 

“What are you dreaming about, Sherlock? What’s so terrible that you are afraid to sleep?” John asked gently.

 

“I am not afraid to sleep!” Sherlock recoiled at the words, as if John had struck him physically. He then hugged himself, as if protecting himself from the outside world and said in a lost voice. “I am sorry, I cannot remember. Anyway, scientific studies have indicated that having the occasional nightmare is a normal occurrence.”

 

“Having chronic nightmares is not normal,” John said. “Who is this ‘Vic’ that you keep mumbling about in your dreams, is he the cause of your nightmares? Is he someone that hurt you in the past?”

 

“Vic?” Sherlock asked with a small frown on his face. “I don’t know of any ‘Vic’. Oh.” Sherlock said as he remembered something. “Victor Trevor. My classmate from Cambridge.”

 

“You are dreaming of Victor Trevor?” John asked, unable to disguise the jealousy in his voice.

 

“No!” Sherlock denied sharply and then an uncertain look appeared on his face. “I don’t think so,” Sherlock said in a subdued voice. “I haven’t thought of him for many years. He died in an accident when we were still at Cambridge, a car accident. Come to think of it, I think the anniversary of his death will be coming up soon, possibly that is what I was remembering. Anyway, it is late now and I am going to bed.” Sherlock stood up and moved towards his bedroom, ignoring John who was still half-kneeling on the floor. John watched the retreating figure. He was pretty certain that this Victor Trevor had a staring role in Sherlock’s nightmares. When he had burst into the other mans room last night he had found Sherlock squeezed into the corner of the room sitting on the floor hugging the teddy bear tightly and rocking himself, tears streaming down his face. John’s heart had almost broken at the sight of Sherlock crying like a small child, clutching tightly at the scruffy bear. When John tried to comfort him, Sherlock had trashed violently, as if John was trying to hurt him all the while sobbing about Vic.

 

So Vic was Victor Trevor now John had a name and part of the puzzle about Sherlock’s nightmares now he just had to find out the rest of the story. John knew precisely, who to ask about Sherlock’s old college friend and what had happened to him and why it was affecting Sherlock so badly.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock stared up at his bedroom celling trying to make sense of what John had told him about his nightmares. He frowned as he closed his eyes and tried to settle down to sleep. He had fled from John earlier because he didn’t know what to say to him. He honestly didn’t remember any of what had happened the previous night. Not getting out of bed or hiding in the corner of the room and he certainly didn’t remember punching John. Perhaps he should make an effort in the morning to try and remember what he had dreamt about. Boring people remembered their dreams and nightmare, so surely it shouldn’t be a problem for someone like him. With that resolved Sherlock slowly drifted off to sleep.

 

\-----

 

 _**Sherlock’s** _ **dreamscape**

 

_Sherlock found himself in an abandoned courtyard. It was dark and cold, he shivered as he realised to his surprise that he was only wearing his pyjamas and that he was barefoot. Where was he, and why was he here? Wanting to find the answers he decided to follow the shadowed meandering path thought the courtyard. In the distance, he could see a large building with lights and he could hear the vague sounds of music, laughter and merriment. The building seemed to conjure up a feeling of warmth and safety. Sherlock tried to walk to the building but the closer he moved towards it, the further away it seemed to get._

 

_Shadows loomed all around him, the only light he had to see by came from the moon and stars above. The path was flanked on either side by overgrown rose bushes and the roses themselves appeared almost black in colour and the air was thick with their scent. However, this was no sweet floral scent, instead it was heavy, sultry and decadent, almost animalistic, with a hint of death in it. These were not sweet, fresh dewy roses. They were just past the peak of their bloom with a slight reddish decay visible at the edge of their petals as they gave a last desperate push to show their finest to the world before they wilted. The dying edges made it look as if the roses were bleeding, and the scent they were producing had an almost metallic aroma that reminded him of blood._

 

_Sherlock followed the meandering path until it finally led him to a large open space with a large water fountain. A male figure sat by the water, his face hidden in the shadows. He was dressed formally in a black evening tailcoat with silk facings, horizontally cut-away at the front. The trousers were made of matching fabric with two narrow strips of braid down the side seams. To complete the look, the figure wore a starched wing collar shirt, a white bow tie and white waistcoat._

 

_As Sherlock moved closer to the fountain, the figure stood up, his movements jerky as if he didn’t have full control of his limbs. The figure gave a full, formal bow. “_

 

_Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?” the figure had a surprisingly youthful voice._

 

_Almost against his will, Sherlock accepted invitation and started to move in unison with the figure._

 

_He recognised the music, “Second Waltz” by Dimitri Shostakovich. There was something familiar about the scene. Didn’t he dance with John during their anniversary? He was sure it was the same music but at 221B Baker Street._

 

_The person, he was dancing with now, wasn’t John. He was a lot taller, even taller than Sherlock. The movements of his dance partner were jerky and slightly uncoordinated. The moon, which had been partially hidden by the clouds earlier, now came out and Sherlock had his first good look at his dance partner. With a start, Sherlock realised that he was looking into a painted wooden face. His dance partner was a marionette. Sherlock should be frightened at this strange turn of events. Instead, he felt a sense of loss, as if he had forgotten something beautiful and important to him._

 

_“Who are you?” Sherlock whispered._

 

_The marionette didn’t answer him. It led Sherlock to a hidden meadow. Sherlock suddenly found himself on the ground. As he looked up, he saw the moon and the millions of stars in the night sky. The grass formed a thick carpet beneath him and he could smell the scent of fresh soil in the air, which mingled with the scent of the roses. The marionette knelt on the ground and touched Sherlock’s face gently, almost sadly._

 

_“Why are you so sad?” Sherlock asked._

 

_A dark figure suddenly loomed over them both. A werewolf. Almost casually, he pulled the marionette up, and then very deliberately, started to tear the wooden figure limb from limb. The marionette’s decapitated head dropped to the grass and rolled by Sherlock’s side. The painted face was no longer smiling, in stead the mouth was opened, forever frozen in a silent scream._

 

_“Get away from me!” Sherlock was petrified as the creature discarded the broken marionette and turned his attention towards him. “You are not real. This is only a dream. You cannot harm me.” Sherlock got up from the ground and stared at the Werewolf. A dream. This was just a dream, Sherlock chanted to himself._

 

_The Werewolf was staring at him with red glowing eyes as if they were fire from the pits of hell. The creature in front of him was a myth, a creature from the dark, a cursed human in the guise of a wolf. The face was that of a wolf with a long snout with sharp gleaming fangs. It had human-like fingers except that they were curved and elongated with razor-sharp claws. It stood up on its hind legs, a mockery in its grotesquely human-like pose. The entire body was covered in thick, black wiry hair. Sherlock looked down and gasped when he saw the size and length of the penis, which was proudly, and obscenely erect, a promise of intimate exchanges that Sherlock wasn’t keen to explore._

 

_Sherlock edged backwards slowly; ready to run away from the nightmare before him. However, before he could move the creature pounced and he was shoved to the ground. He fell backwards onto the grass with the Werewolf on top of him._

 

_Sherlock writhed under the thick, wiry, black pelt and screamed as the Werewolf tore off his pyjamas with its sharp claws. He was helpless against its strength as it leaned down and bit him on the side of his neck, marking him just like an Alpha would mark his territory on his Omega. He was petrified as he saw the Werewolf’s teeth, which gleamed like razors in the moonlight. He redoubled his efforts to push the beast off but the Werewolf’s claws suddenly dug painfully into his side, Sherlock stilled in fear and was rewarded as the Werewolf started to lick at the bite mark at the side of his neck._

 

_The tongue of the creature had a rough texture and it felt like sandpaper rubbing against his neck. The slight pain and discomfort of the licking tongue was doing strange things to Sherlock’s body as felt himself getting hard. At the back of his mind, he suddenly remembered what he had stored in his Mind Palace about Werewolves. It was said that the bite and saliva of a Werewolf was a natural aphrodisiac to its prey. The Werewolf would rape and feast on his prey while the prey writhed in pleasure and confusion. Sherlock knew that this was what the Werewolf planned to do to him. But his mind was now so clouded by lust that he couldn’t bring himself to care. No, he should care. Someone was waiting for him out there. He frowned; there was something important he needed to remember. But as the Werewolf continued to almost suckle at the bite on his neck he could feel all reasoned thought slowly abandon him._

 

_He lost all coherent thoughts as the aphrodisiac coursed through his system and made his body extremely sensitive to touch. Goosebumps covered his now exposed skin and he gasped when the Werewolf started to pinch his tender nipples painfully, the sharp claws cutting into the tender flesh and causing small drops of blood to surface. The creature then moved his tongue down and started to suckle and lick at his now blood ringed nipples. It’s saliva heightening Sherlock’s arousal further._

 

_It was unlike anything he had felt before. Desire. Hunger. Lust. His eyes were wide and dilated and he started to pant and whimper softly as a long finger started to scrape at the entrance of his anus, which had started to lubricate on its own. The relentless finger pushed all the way in and he moaned and started to squirm in excitement as the finger started to rub at his prostate._

 

_Sherlock spread his legs apart and bucked his hips like a wanton slut, silently begging to be used, to be fucked, to be raped. To his surprise, the Werewolf pulled him up and he found himself sitting on the lap of the huge creature. He could feel the Werewolf’s large hard cock at the entrance of his anus and bit back a moan as it started to penetrate him. He was screaming inside his mind that this was wrong, that he didn’t wasn’t this but he could not control his body as he eagerly pushed back on the intrusion, his arse swallowing the cock slowly inch by inch until he was impaled fully, finally seated on the creatures lap. His mind couldn’t accept it but his body was working against him, hips rocking eager to fuck its self on the massive intrusion. His own now swollen cock rubbing against the wiry pelt increasing his pleasure._

 

_The cock was long and hairy and Sherlock started to pant as he mindlessly started to fuck himself on the creature’s member, the thick hairs teasing his anus every time he thrust back and forward. It was painful as if he was fucking himself on a fur covered pipe but he couldn’t help himself as he continued to mindlessly rut against the Werewolf, a prisoner of his own body’s desires. His eyes widened in pain as he felt the first stirring of the knot against his hole, fear shot down his spine as he felt the knot slip partially inside as it started expanding, he was already so stretched if it slipped all the way in and expanded fully it would rip him in half. Almost instinctively, he tried to raise himself off from the Werewolf. However, it held him down with its claws digging into his side pulling him down further as it thrust its hips up as it’s knot continued to grow. He could feel the warm blood trickle down his sides as the claws pierced his skin as the Werewolf thrust up and the knot was forced inside and expanded fully locking them together. The Werewolf hips bucked up one more time and it came howling as it emptied his cum inside him. Sherlock whimpered as his own internal muscles contracted and clung to the monsters cock like a lover. He started to weep softly as he felt the Werewolf’s warm cum tainting and flooding his aching bum. He had willingly participated in his own rape and even found pleasure in it as he realised in horror that he had climaxed at the same time as the creature. At least it was over now._

 

_Sherlock head spun as he found himself on the ground once more. He looked up and found himself looking into the red glowing eyes monster. The face was more angular than a human’s with protruding ears. There was less hair on the face than he expected and the more Sherlock stared at it, the more frightened he became at its similarity to a human. The face looked strangely familiar, like the face of someone whom he had been very close to a lifetime away._

 

_The Werewolf crouched over him and to Sherlock’s horror; he saw the creatures cock hardening again. It pushed his legs up and as if a puppet master was controlling his body, Sherlock automatically wrapped his legs around the Werewolf’s waist. He felt the tip of the Werewolf’s enormous cock against his vagina as it slowly started to penetrate him._

 

_Sherlock started to scream silently in his mind even though his body opened itself wide, welcoming the Werewolf’s cock, allowing it to plunder him. The monster wanted to breed him. It would fuck him relentlessly until his belly was swollen with child. And he was just lying here, letting it have its way with him, he was a slut, he was tainted. Mycroft would disown him for allowing himself to be fucked by an animal. John would turn away in disgust; no one would accept a slut who willingly participated in his own rape._

 

_\-----_

 

Sherlock woke up with his heart pounding, his skin cold and clammy. His pillow was drenched in sweat. He looked down and to his horror he found that he had ejaculated during his sleep.

 

_You have terrible nightmares._

_I do not dream._

_I cannot remember._

 

As Sherlock remembered what he had dreamt, he felt his stomach churn throwing himself out of bed he rushed to the bathroom and dry-retched over the toilet bowl. As he stopped retching he could hear the rapid knocking on the bathroom door. “Are you alright, Sherlock?” John shouted.“Are you sick?”

 

Sherlock ignored John’s questions, his mind still trying to process everything. Once he was able to stand, he started to undress himself and examined his body. Flawless, not a mark on his skin anywhere. He touched his neck and there was no bite mark. As he slipped out of his pajama pants Sherlock felt sick in his stomach, he had actually ejaculated during that horrific nightmare. How could he face John after acting like a slut? He looked up and saw the mirror. With a sudden rage, he punched the mirror, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces.

 

\-----

 

**Laboratory, St Bartholomew's Hospital**

 

Sherlock had changed. He was no longer the Sherlock that John knew. The Sherlock he knew was vivacious, seeing life as a series of adventures and even though he wasn’t the most diplomatic person around, and he tended to rub people the wrong way with his condescending remarks. Most people around him had more or less gotten used to him, seeing his brash manner as a strange Sherlockian quirk. Even Sally Donovan and Anderson had a grudging respect for him, even though they considered him a sociopath and a potential future serial killer. All this had changed over the last few weeks. Sherlock was now cold and downright cruel, not caring how his caustic words would hurt the people around him.

 

Molly Hooper was currently in tears after Sherlock informed her dispassionately, while still looking into the microscope he was working over, that her boyfriend, Jim, whom she introduced to Sherlock earlier, was gay and that he was more interested in Sherlock than Molly. He had only looked up from his microscope to show her the card Jim had surreptitiously left for Sherlock with his phone number written on it. He then proceeded to inform her that it would be better for her to break the relationship off and save herself the pain, followed by an observation that she had put on weight since he had last seen her.

 

John was horrified and turned to look at Molly, “Err...sorry, Sherlock is not himself today.”

 

Molly stared at Sherlock, stunned and hurt by his comments, then turned and left the laboratory without another word.

 

“What do you mean I’m not myself today?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope again. “I am saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?”

 

“What? ‘Kinder? No, no Sherlock. _That_ wasn’t kind. What’s wrong with you? You did that on purpose. You need to go and apologise to Molly.”

 

Sherlock sniffed and continued with his work as he went back to examining the specimen under the microscope.

 

“Charming, just charming, Sherlock. Now I have to look for Molly before you chase the last person away who can tolerate you,” John said, frustrated as left the laboratory, banging the door behind him.

 

\-----

 

**Canteen**

 

“I am sorry, Molly,” John said as he brought her a cup of coffee. They settled down at a table at the corner of the canteen, which gave them some semblance of privacy. “Sherlock is having one of those mood swings. He is impossibly rude to everyone and even reduced Mrs Hudson to tears yesterday.”

 

“I’m going to break up with Jim,” Molly said as she stirred her coffee absentmindedly.

 

“Molly, there is no need to –” John said.

 

“Sherlock is never wrong. It is best I listen to his advice and break up with Jim. It will save me time investing into a fruitless relationship,” Molly said.

 

John was silent. While Sherlock was very likely to be right in his assessment of Jim, he had still been incredibly rude and blunt, as he’d revealed his assessment of Molly’s boyfriend. And Sherlock’s parting shot about Molly’s weight was downright cruel given how self-conscious and sensitive the mousy Beta was towards her weight and self-image.

 

“Sherlock has alienated everyone around him. You have been incredibly tolerant of his inept social skills,” John finally said. Suddenly he realised that he didn’t really know anything about the mousy Beta except that she was the part-time procurer of body parts for Sherlock. Surely it was more than just a simple crush that made her willing to bend several rules just to give Sherlock access to the laboratory and the dead bodies.

 

Molly was non-committal as she took a sip of coffee.

 

“I believe that Sherlock’s mood swings started soon after the anniversary dinner a few weeks ago?” Molly asked suddenly.

 

“Yes,” John sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair. “He has been having bad dreams lately. Every single night, that is if he sleeps at all. He isn’t eating much and if he isn’t here, he would be at home playing Bach the whole time. And Sherlock never plays Bach unless something is bothering him. I have asked him several times about what’s upsetting him but he shuts me out.” John couldn’t understand how his relationship with Sherlock could have deteriorated so rapidly to the point where he honestly had no idea if they could ever find their way back to the closeness they once shared.

 

“When was the last time Sherlock visited his Uncle Rudy?” Molly asked.

 

“You know about Uncle Rudy? The cross-dressing uncle from Dublin?” John asked. He was surprised that Molly knew about Sherlock’s uncle. It looked as though Molly was a lot closer to Sherlock than he had realised if she could name Sherlock’s weird relatives.

 

“Yes, I know about Uncle Rudy,” Molly said as she put down the coffee cup she was holding.

 

“About a month back,” John said as he tried to recall exactly when Sherlock had been away for a few days. “Mycroft said his uncle wanted to see Sherlock again so he will be leaving for Dublin in a week’s time.”

 

“So quickly?” Molly said softly as she started to play with the ring on her middle finger.

 

“Who is this Uncle Rudy? Have you met him?” John asked, curious about this eccentric uncle who was apparently so very fond of Sherlock.

 

“We have met,” Molly said in a tight voice.

 

“I thought Mycroft said he is a recluse and that he didn’t like strangers,” John asked as he recalled Mycroft’s words when he had offered to accompany Sherlock to Dublin. “Sherlock must love his uncle. I notice that whenever he comes back from a visit he seems a lot happier and calmer.”

 

Molly shrugged her shoulders. She pushed her chair back and stood up, as she bent over to pick up her cup she whispered to John. “Don’t trust what you see with your eyes, John. And never ever trust Mycroft. He isn’t the loving and protective elder brother he seems and not everything he does is in Sherlock’s best interests.”

 

Before John could question Molly further, she had quickly turned and walked away from the table without a backwards glance. John stared after her as she made her way towards the entrance of the canteen. Molly Hooper knew Mycroft?

 

\-----

 

**South Bristol Swimming Pool**

 

Mycroft had used his position as the head of the family to forbid Sherlock from investigating Jim Moriarty probably because he worked for ‘Werewolf’. Sherlock, had uncharacteristically, obeyed Mycroft’s orders, dropping all the cases suspected to be linked to Moriarty. John was not Sherlock and Mycroft was not the Alpha in charge of his family. While working for MI6 he had heard vague rumors of the ‘Werewolf’, a megalomaniac who was actually the real power behind the various Eastern European regimes. John had never been interested in the man since he had been based mainly in Western Europe and then later the Middle East where the fiasco in Afghanistan effectively ended his MI6 career. But now he wanted to know more, he wanted to know who this ‘Werewolf’ was and why he had targeted Sherlock and he wanted to neutralise the threat to his mate.

 

John had called in favours from his former colleagues and associates. He had finally managed to track down the mysterious Moriarty, the right hand man to ‘Werewolf’ who also turned out to be ‘Jim from I.T.’. This Jim now standing in front of John was not the fumble-fingered casually dressed man who left his number for Sherlock at the St Bart’s laboratory. The man in front him was neatly dressed in an expensive Westwood suit and he had a cold mocking look on his face.

 

“Looking for me, Dr Watson?” Jim Moriarty asked in a bored tone as he straightened his jacket as if he was getting ready to attend some red carpet event instead of facing a gun. The fully loaded gun with the safety off that John Watson was pointing at his heart. It was Jim’s favourite suit, it would be a shame to see it ruined with blood. He wasn’t surprised at being caught, knew the game was coming to an end. Mycroft’s men were closing in on him and he accepted that he would soon be in custody. However, he knew that his master would ensure that he would be dead long before he could spill any beans. But he was surprised that John Watson had beaten both his Master and Mycroft in getting to him first. He had only minutes to spare before the poison he had ingested earlier killed him. If he had to die, it would be on his own terms. And before he kicked the bucket, he just had enough time to have some fun and taunt the doctor in front of him.

 

“I only have –” Jim looked at his watch “five minutes to spare before Mycroft’s cavalry arrives. So any questions you want to ask, you better be quick.”

 

“Who is this ‘Werewolf’? Why is he targeting Sherlock? And where can I find him?” John asked as he tightened his hold on his gun. The man in front of him was way too calm for a person who would soon be in Mycroft’s custody. He had to know that all he could look forward to was a one-way trip to the interrogators. Moriarty would probably be dead or in the best-case scenario, a raving idiot by the end of the interrogation. John had a feeling that Mycroft would not share any of the information he may extract so he had wanted to get to Jim Moriarty alone before Mycroft’s minions arrived and do some interrogating of his own.

 

“So many questions,” Moriarty said mockingly. “Surely you don’t expect me to answer them in…” Moriarty looked at his watch again, “four minutes.”

 

“Answer me, you moron!” John said.

 

“Why don’t you ask your Sleeping Beauty?” Moriarty answered in a singsong voice. “Poor Sleeping Beauty who had his memories locked away. And the King threw away the key. Poor, poor Sleeping Beauty. Uncle Rudy will make everything better.” Jim giggled insanely.

 

“What are you talking about?” John asked, bewildered by the strange behavior and words. “Daddy is very angry with the Sleeping Beauty, so very, very angry. Daddy is going to kill Prince Charming for defiling his Sleeping Beauty.” Moriarty said as an opaque, mad look came into his eyes. A moment later, his body started convulse and blood-stained froth started to appear at his mouth and nose.

 

“What have you taken?” John put the gun down and rushed towards Moriarty as he collapsed. He raised Moriarty’s head up and realised that the man must have ingested a fast acting poison.

 

“The East Wind is coming.” Moriarty started to hyperventilate. “And it is going …to take Sleeping Beauty away.” Moriarty opened his mouth again and then silence as his body went still forever.

 

\------

 

Hahahahaha - I killed off Jim Moriarty!

 

I came across a video clip in youtube by Nichole Skarlatos in which Sherlock found himself in a disturbing dream having sex with a stranger. It has an eerie resemblance to the dreamscape scene in this chapter. The atmospheric music used in the video clip is are ‘In the House- In a Heartbeat’ from the movie ‘28 Days Later’ and ‘Still Alive’ by Mt Eden Dubstep. I listened to these 2 soundtracks while writing Chapter 11. You can watch the video clip at <http://peach-tart.com/dreamscape>

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kick me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is not the Molly we know.

A very big thank you to [Megabat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat) and [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) for helping to beta read this chapter

 

* * *

 

 

**Canteen, St Bartholomew’s Hospital**

 

Mycroft’s minions arrived seconds after Jim Moriarty died in John’s arms. “Perfect timing,” John muttered to himself. He had to admit that to the casual observer entering the scene it did look as though he had murdered the criminal. Things would have looked very bleak for him except for the fact that one of the members of the raiding party recognised John as Sherlock’s suitor. The team leader had been hesitant to release him, wanting to wait for forensic confirmation of his story, and he had only done so reluctantly after making a series of calls to verify his identity.

 

John’s encounter with Moriarty had left him with several questions he wanted answers to. Like who exactly was this mysterious ‘Uncle Rudy’ and how did Moriarty know about him when he couldn’t find anything on the man. He had even resorted to searching through all the available information online regarding the Holmes Family, but he could not find anyone called ‘Rudy’ let alone an uncle on either side of the family. He had even checked with Colin Belair but even though he had known Sherlock for years and now worked for Mycroft, he had no knowledge of Sherlock’s relatives. However, Colin did provide a clue by telling John to check with Molly Hooper.

 

John knew that Molly had information about this mysterious uncle but he was reluctant to ask her. The Alpha in him had bristled at a potential competitor for his mate’s affections even though he knew that Sherlock had clearly not reciprocated the woman’s obvious feelings. John was a good judge of character but he was hesitant to put a label on the young woman. On the surface, she was a mousy and timid Beta who was in love with Sherlock. But there was something about her that alerted John to the fact that she wasn’t just the simple Beta she appeared to be. There was a _hard_ edge to her; decisive and cold as seen by the way she quickly ditched Jim from I.T. upstairs as a potential suitor, without a second thought. This was someone who was ruthlessly practical, which was at odds with the way she mooned over Sherlock, even when anyone could see that there was no hope of him returning her affections. Sherlock was fond of her, in a sisterly type of way, and John knew that Molly was aware of that.

 

“Ah, John you are here,” Molly said as she reached the secluded corner of the canteen, a place John had chosen to ensure that their conversation would not be eavesdropped upon by Mycroft’s minions.

 

When Molly had received the message from John asking her to meet him in the canteen, she was quite sure that she knew what he wanted to ask her about, and to be honest she had been tempted to turn down the invitation. She had been warned not to talk to the ex MI6 agent regarding certain matters pertaining to Sherlock. However, the person who had held leverage over her to ensure her reluctant silence had lost their only pressure point. Her father, the only living relative that she cared about, had passed away last month.

 

“Hello Molly, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” Johns smile was as warm as always as he stood to greet her, but she noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She was now sure she was right about right about the reason for this meeting. “My condolences, about your father by the way. I only learnt of his passing last week.” John said.

 

She wondered how he had known about her father, but then she realised he was ex MI6 as well as Sherlock’s fiancé. Knowing John he had probably ran background checks on all of Sherlock’s friends. “Well, he had been sick for a very long time,” Molly shrugged her shoulders as she sat down. She looked into John’s eyes as he retook his seat and said abruptly, “I have a lot of work to do. So just let us ignore the small talk. What do you want from me?”

 

John was struck by how different Molly appeared now, compared to when he had first met her. She wasn’t the sweet quiet spoken Beta, eager to please and subservient. In fact, anyone who had looked at her up until now would have casually dismissed her as a timid wallflower. But she now carried herself so differently that John had trouble reconciling his past hazy images of her, to the woman that now sat across from him. Her back was ramrod straight and she spoke in a clipped voice and her demeanor came across severe and strictly no nonsense. In fact, she reminded him of a female version of Sherlock in fact she now looked like she would have no problem telling you straight to your face that you were an idiot and imbecile. John’s instincts told him that this new incarnation of Molly was dangerous.

 

“Who is Uncle Rudy?” John asked. “He seems to play a very important role in Sherlock’s life, but he refuses to discuss the man. In fact he has been acting erratically ever since Mycroft brought up the fact that his uncle wanted to see him again. To be honest I’m worried, he seems almost distressed at the thought of going to Dublin. He is hardly sleeping and when he does sleep, he has nightmares, terrible nightmares, even Mrs Hudson, who is slightly deaf, has been woken up by his screams. I had hoped that a new case would distract him from whatever is troubling him. We had this this interesting client show up at the flat this morning involving a case over in Dartmoor about a gigantic hound but Sherlock literally kicked the man out of the flat.”

 

\---

 

**Earlier in the Day**   
**221B Baker Street**

 

_Henry Knight was an unassuming, normal-looking man in his late twenties. He was obviously very anxious and he told his story in a halting tone about how, twenty years before, his dad had been killed in front of him, ripped apart by a gigantic black hound with red glowing eyes. Although he was nervous, Henry Knight could hardly hide his attraction to Sherlock and he stared at the consulting detective when he thought no one was watching. The Alpha in John had wanted to throw the interloper out of the flat, and he would have if not for the fact, John thought arrogantly, that Sherlock would never be interested in such a plain specimen of an Alpha. Plus this interloper did bring with him an intriguing case, which he hoped would entertain Sherlock._

 

_John knew that this case could be considered an eight and he was glad that, due to the location of the client, this case would take Sherlock away from Baker Street. Perhaps a break would be good for his fiancé, possibly calm him before his visit to Dublin. Ever since Moriarty had mentioned Uncle Rudy, John had been making discreet enquiries about Sherlock’s mysterious uncle. However, he found himself constantly hitting a brick wall in his investigations, as no one seemed to know anything about this mysterious relative. They both needed something to take their minds of things, and this case looked to be just what the doctor ordered. An interesting, and to be quite honest, odd case, should just be the thing to intrigue Sherlock and get him all fired up. Except Sherlock was not interested in the case, in fact he was totally dismissive and rude. John watched shocked as the detective pointed his finger at the door, gesturing for the client to leave the flat._

 

_“I have seen you before, in Devon. At the Cross Keys Inn.” Henry Knight said suddenly, ignoring Sherlock’s dismissive gesture. “You look different from the photographs in the newspapers.”_

 

_Henry Knight was sure that he had seen Sherlock at the Inn. It was hard to miss a stranger, let alone such an attractive one, in the small sleepy Grimpen Village. No one had been able to take their eyes off him from the moment he had walked into the pub. He was, Henry Knight recalled, accompanied by a man with a receding hairline carrying a black umbrella who scowled at the attention Sherlock was attracting and soon ushered him away, much to the disappointment of the pub goers._

 

_John frowned he knew that the few photographs of Sherlock, which had found their way into the newspapers were usually blurry with the large deer stalker hat and the collar of his coat hiding most of his face. So if Henry Knight said he had seen Sherlock before, there was a good chance he was right. Sherlock was very distinctive, and that wasn’t just his obvious bias towards his fiancé that made him think so. As he looked over to his flatmate he noticed that Sherlock’s face had turned as white as a sheet at the words._

 

_“You have been mistaken. I have never been to Devon,” Sherlock said coldly standing up. Without another word, he pulled Henry Knight out of his seat, and literally pushed his would-be client out of the living room, slamming the door after him._

 

_“Sherlock!” John exclaimed getting up to follow. “What has gotten into you? That was a client and even if you don’t want to take the case, there is no need to be so rude!” He rushed past his fiancé opening the door and ran down the stairs to check on the unfortunate man that had literally been ejected from the flat._

 

_After making his apologies to the hapless and bemused Alpha, John made his way back to the flat and found Sherlock facing the window playing his violin. His whole stance screamed ‘leave me alone’._

 

_“Fine!” John said tiredly in a defeated tone. “If that is how you want to treat your clients.”_

 

\---

 

**Present Time**   
**Canteen, St Bartholomew’s Hospital**

 

“Sherlock kicked a client out over a case set in Dartmoor?” Molly asked, a strange look on her face.

 

“Yes, I can’t understand why. Giant Hound, returning to haunt the son twenty years after killing the father I thought it would be something Sherlock should tear into with glee. It is right up his alley.” John rubbed a hand across his face in frustration.

 

“When is Sherlock leaving to see his uncle?”

 

“About a week from now,” John said. “Now about this uncle –"

 

“We are going on a road trip,” Molly interrupted, a pensive and strangely determined look on her face as if she had just made up her mind over an important decision. “You and I. After Sherlock leaves for Dublin.”

 

“Road trip?” John asked, a bewildered look on his face. “Where are we going? What has this got to do with Sherlock’s uncle?”

 

“We are going to Dartmoor to investigate the case of the Giant Hound,” Molly said with a strangely unsettling smile on her face. “Don’t tell Sherlock about it. I will tell you everything you need to know about ’Uncle Rudy’ on our little road trip.

 

After they had talked over the logistics of their trip, John had headed back to Baker Street. As she finished her coffee she mentally reminded herself to ask her neighbour to look after her cat. The neighbour had taken a shine to Toby and if she didn’t return from her road trip, she knew the woman would provide him with a good home. Molly’s lips curved in a mirthless smile as she recalled the frown on John’s face as he left the canteen. He had been obviously dissatisfied with her noncommittal answers, regarding Dartmoor and Uncle Rudy, but in the end he had agreed to the trip. She wasn’t stupid she knew he was letting her dictate the rules for now, but it was obvious the man was worried about Sherlock and wanted answers and that his patience was wearing thin. But all things considered John Watson’s anger could be the least of her problems. This road trip could very likely end up with both of them being locked up with the key being thrown away.

 

\---

 

**One week later**   
**221B Baker Street**

 

“Are you sure you have packed everything?” John asked as he hovered in the doorway to Sherlock’s bedroom, as he watched the younger man pack his clothes into a small case.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped. ‘Stop hovering John, you are giving me a headache.” John winced at the sharp reply.

 

“I spoke to the hospital and they agreed to give me three hours off today. I can see you off at the station,” John said in a mild tone, trying not to snap back at the detective. Things had not been going well between the two of them this past few weeks. Sherlock had been edgy ever since Henry Knight’s visit. In the past, when things got this difficult in a relationship, John would have walked out. He would not have had the patience to cope with a partner who seemed so hell bent on being as unpleasant as he could to everyone around him. But then he had never been this much in love with someone before, but even he had his breaking point, and if they continued on like this he was going to reach it very soon.

 

“I have already told you that Mycroft will send a car to take me to Paddington Station. Are you an imbecile?” Sherlock turned and stood up, glaring at the ex-army doctor. He could see that John was upset from the way he was clenching his fists, trying not to lash out at Sherlock. “Getting angry?” Sherlock taunted. “I can see that you are very upset with me. Would it make you feel better if you just hit me?”

 

John took a deep breath. For one moment, he was actually tempted to box Sherlock’s ears. Anger Management Issues, his therapist had written in his psych report after the compulsory sessions the Army had forced him to attend. He swore that he would not let his anger blind his mind and he would not break his vow with the infuriating young man in front of him.

 

“No, I’m not upset with you. I care about you and I want to see how I can help you,” John said when he finally found his inner strength to bring his anger down.

 

Sherlock looked surprised at John’s answer and for one moment, his face crinkled and it seemed he was about to cry.

 

“Why are you so patient with me?” Sherlock finally said, looking away, unable to meet John’s tired eyes. “I am rude, obnoxious and no one can stand to be around me for long. Donovan calls me a freak and –"

John stepped forward quickly and put his fingers on Sherlock’s lips. “No, love,” he said. I know this is not the real you. There is something bothering you. I won’t force you to share what is troubling you. But please trust me, I swear we will work through this together. As a couple.”

 

“As a couple?” Sherlock said in a small voice, his voice muffled as he suddenly buried his face into John’s fuzzy sweater.

 

“Yes, as a couple,” John said in a firm voice as he pulled Sherlock closer and wrapped his arm around his partner’s waist.

 

‘I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said as he struggled to compose himself. He pushed John gently away. “You have the patience of a saint,” he said with a small wobbly smile, the first smile John had seen on Sherlock’s face in weeks.

 

“We will have a heart-to-heart talk after your return from Dublin,” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock that he would be joining Molly on a road trip to Dartmoor but he remembered her warning not to do so at the last minute.. Given how Sherlock had reacted to Henry Knight, he did not want to risk upsetting Sherlock further. He didn’t want to go behind Sherlock’s back but he badly wanted to know who this uncle really was and why the consulting criminal mentioned him during his death throes. In fact if anything, the fact that Sherlock hadn’t deduced everything that had happened between himself and Molly already, just highlighted how far off his game the consulting detective was.

 

“I will be better after a visit to Uncle Rudy,” Sherlock promised earnestly, but John thought his eyes were a bit too bright, almost feverish, “I’m always better after seeing Uncle Rudy. You’ll see, I will be back to my old self and everything will return to normal. I promise.”

 

John watched his young lover with an unease that bordered on alarm. He had a feeling in his stomach that he was not going to like anything that Molly had to say about this uncle.

 

* * *

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kicks me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock in his Uni Days.

I am not sure whether anyone is reading this story anymore. I am so sorry for taking so long to update.Today is my birthday and I decided to post a new chapter today and to remind myself not to give up writing.

Real life is not fun. I have changed my job and my jobscope is totally different from what I used to do in the past. I was also hit by the 'cancer' scare which after several long and exhaustive tests, thankfully turned out to be a false alarm even though I was told to be careful and need to go for yearly check-up. And lastly, my sister was injured badly overseas and ended up in a foreign hospital for one month. I am not sure when I can update after this chapter but rest be assured, this story will be completed...one day. While I cannot commit to a timeline, I promise that there will not be such a huge gap in between the chapters.

An usual, a very big thank you to [Megabat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat) and [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile) for helping to beta read this chapter

 

\------------------

 

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! 

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

 Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! 

Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d  

― _Eloisa to Abelard_ , Alexander Pope

 

\------------------

 

 

John was surprised to see Molly sitting in a Land Rover outside Baker Street.

 

“I thought we are taking the train,” John said as he got into the car. “It is a four hour drive from London to Devon.”

 

“I wanted to have a private conversation with you without the agents following you eavesdropping,” Molly answered seriously as she drove off after once he had buckled the seat belt.

 

She stopped as the traffic light turned red.

 

“I heard that you approached Mycroft and informed him that you wanted to ‘court’ Sherlock,” Molly said, looking straight ahead as she waited for the lights turned green again.

 

“Yes,” John smiled. “Sherlock told you about it?”

 

“Yes, at the mortuary. I have never seen him so happy not since…” Molly had a faraway look on her face.

 

John was tempted to demand answers regarding ‘Uncle Rudy’ right away and he had several other burning questions that he wanted answered. However, he sensed that if wanted to get his answers, it would be on Molly’s terms and her timescale. It was a four hour drive to Devon he had plenty of time and he was prepared to wait for her to collect her thoughts.

 

“Can you tell me about Sherlock? I realised that although we have been together for several months, there are so many things that I don’t know about him. You were one of his friends back in Cambridge, right? Just like Colin.”

 

“We first met at Cambridge,” Molly said with a small smile, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes softened her features as she recalled their first encounter. She wasn’t ashamed to admit that she’d had a crush on Sherlock ever since; even though they both knew that they were more like siblings than lovers. She was the patient elder sister while he was the bratty younger brother. She was well aware of the animosity Mycroft felt towards her because of how Sherlock had relied on her when they were at university. The elder Holmes saw her as an intruder in the close relationship that the brothers had shared up until then. He tolerated her, a grudging acceptance of the fact that his brother needed to have friends outside his own family.

 

That is until their fateful confrontation over Sherlock a few years back. She had been on the verge of being thrown in jail by the elder Holmes over what he saw as her interference in matters that did not concern her. Until Mycroft had finally deemed her to be more useful in London where he could keep an eye on her. There was an uneasy truce between them, with the elder Holmes holding the upper hand with the leverage he held over her to keep her in line. But things had changed when her father died Mycroft had lost his leverage.

 

“He is -” Molly searched for the correct word to describe her first impression of Sherlock, “-posh. You know, from one of those old families who can trace their lineage back hundreds of years unlike us commoners.”

 

“What was he like at Uni?” John asked, curious despite himself. He should be interrogating her about the mysterious uncle but he was also curious about his boyfriends past, a past he had no part of, he thought with some jealousy.

 

“Slightly aloof but well-liked. He got along well with the Betas at Uni. We are supposed to live an egalitarian society but the truth is that, those from the elite classes have an edge. Unless you are an Alpha from one of those obscenely rich and old families, you are basically a second-class citizen. Most Betas tended to avoid them and vice versa. Even though Sherlock was a Beta the elite Alphas tended to leave him alone out of fear of his family connections. So as we were friends with Sherlock it offered us protection from the bullying as well.” Molly paused. “I first met him when I was accused of cheating on my first year exams by an Alpha who had been harassing me, she was jealous of my grades. I would have been penalised severely and probably would have lost my scholarship had Sherlock not stepped in and offered irrefutable proof that I hadn’t cheated."

 

“He was also a bit of a show-off,” Molly continued her narration with a small smile. “His deduction skills were a popular party trick. He would use tarot cards and deduce the hell out of you.”

 

“Really?” John gave a short incredulous laugh as he remembered how Sherlock used his deductions to annoy, insult and even humiliate everyone around him. “Party trick? He would bite your head off if he heard you refer his deductive skills as a party trick.”

 

“He wasn’t like that when he was at Uni,” Molly explained. “He was a lot more diplomatic then, and not so … impatient. He has a very soft heart and there was a sort of naivetés about him back then, due to his very sheltered upbringing.”

 

\---------

 

**Six years ago**

**Cambridge**

 

_Molly Hooper sat in tears in the chair outside the Vice Chancellor’s office. She didn’t CHEAT in the examinations but she found it impossible to explain how a crib sheet has been found hidden inside her pen. The Vice Chancellor had informed her that she had lost the scholarship she had worked so hard to get. Although she was technically not being expelled, she knew wouldn’t be able to continue her studies without the scholarship as her father wouldn’t be able to afford the university fees on his income as a bus conductor. She would be basically forced to leave Cambridge, her dreams of a better life for her and her father in tatters._

 

_As she sniffed unhappily a hand slipped into her line of sight and passed her a handkerchief. Without a second thought, she accepted it and used it to blow her nose, once she had composed herself, she realised belatedly that the fancy monogrammed handkerchief, which she had just treated like a piece of tissue paper, probably cost more than the dress she was wearing._

 

_Molly looked up and found herself looking at a striking young man with mop of curly dark hair and a pair of piercing blue-green eyes. His name, she recalled from murmurings around campus, was Sherlock Holmes, he was from one of the old families with more money than the Queen of England. She remembered the excited chatters from the girls AND boys when the striking young Beta first strolled through the Cambridge gate. He was just only sixteen, and already a prodigy in chemistry. He was unfailingly polite to everyone, even when confronted with the rude advances from the rich Alphas. However, he held himself apart from everyone, slightly aloof, like a proud cat that kept to itself._

 

_“I heard about what had happened,” the young Beta said in a surprisingly deep velvet baritone, which belied his youth. “I will take your case.”_

 

_He had gone on to prove without a shadow of doubt that she had not cheated on her exams. But had instead been framed by a female Alpha student who was jealous of Molly’s academic prowess. Faced with Sherlock’s evidence and testimony the University’s Board of Governors had cleared her of all wrongdoings and reinstated her on a full scholarship._

 

_Molly had been so grateful for his help and had insisted that he accompany her to one of the Beta parties. Gradually, as the academic year had proceeded the young Beta became less aloof and developed quite sizable circle of friends as he settled in as a young undergraduate. Despite his posh and standoffish exterior, Molly discovered that Sherlock had a soft heart, and over time he offered protection and help to his other Beta friends, regardless of the lack of social status. She knew that the Alphas and Betas from the rich families were miffed that Sherlock had declined to join their circles but they didn’t dare to do anything more than make the odd sarcastic comment here and there about him mixing with people not befitting of his station. They were all too aware of who he was, and no one wanted to do anything to attract the attention or ire of the powerful Holmes family._

 

_For all his intellect, Sherlock was surprisingly clueless when it came to ordinary things, like cooking or even making his own bed. His friends had ribbed him several times for being so helpless when it came to looking after himself. He was also strangely naïve, something that made Molly and the others feel very protective towards him, shielding him from the worst excesses indulged by the majority of undergraduates such as binge drinking, illicit drug use and sex parties._

 

\-----------

 

**Present Day**

 

Molly’s words once again reminded John of his impression of Sherlock when they first met. Despite the sophisticated posh exterior and the sharp intellect, that demonstrated that 99.99% of the populations were idiots, there was a strange naivety about the man. While the younger man studied and claimed to understand human nature, he didn’t comprehend that the darker aspects of that nature could be turned against him.

 

“Quite a number of Alphas and Betas were besotted with him. There was this Beta who wrote the most horrendous love poems and would waylay Sherlock to recite to him his latest compositions. We would be forced to listen to his poems until someone forcibly removed him. Sherlock was always too kind to turn him down and even offered him suggestions on how to improve his prose. He is now is an extremely popular romance writer.” Molly giggled. She had bought a few of his romance novels out of curiosity and to her amusement; she found the damsel in distress was always a statuesque beauty with dark, curly hair and dreamy blue-green eyes. “He owes his career to Sherlock.”

 

As John listened to his travelling companion, he learnt a side of his fiancé that he wasn’t aware of and frankly, quite surprised him. Sherlock had been popular and well liked at University and, according to Molly; he had never uttered an unkind word to anyone, even to the hapless Beta who would waylay him to recite bad love poems to him.

 

"What has changed?” John asked. “Why did he get into drugs?”

 

“He told you about the drugs?” Molly looked slightly surprised, sparing a quick look at John before turning her attention back to the road.

 

“He told me he experimented with drugs in his younger days,” John said. “It is quite out of character for him judging from what you have told me earlier. So what has prompted the change in him?”

 

“Victor Trevor,” Molly said.

 

“Victor Trevor introduced him to drugs?” John asked, his anger rising. Once you have taken drugs, one could never be ‘cured’. It could be kept under control but the addiction would never go away and it would be all too easy for a former addict to relapse and give in to the drug’s siren call again.

 

“No,” Molly answered shortly. She could still remember the laughing face of a young man with merry eyes, full of life and everything good. It was a face that had haunted her in her sleep for years. “Did Sherlock mention Victor to you?”

 

“He said that Victor was his classmate in Cambridge and that he had died in a car accident,” John said. He instinctively knew that this Victor was someone who had not merely been a classmate to Sherlock, not by the way Sherlock had muttered Victor’s name in his sleep.

 

“Victor was the person we thought who would finally succeeded in persuading Sherlock to be his boyfriend,” Molly said. “He was even brave enough to set up an appointment to see Mycroft to announce his intention to date Sherlock. They were a cute couple. Victor was an avid dancer and he taught Sherlock how to dance. He taught him the Waltz, the Foxtrot, the Samba even the Cha-Cha. It was a joy to watch them together.”

 

“Victor Trevor was Sherlock’s boyfriend in Cambridge?” John asked, unable to keep the jealousy out of his voice. On the night he had invited his fiancé to dance, there had been a momentarily glazed look on Sherlock’s face just before he accepted the invitation. It was so quick that John had thought he had imagined it. But there was something both unnerving and familiar about the glazed look, the same type of looks he had seen from the ‘volunteers’ at an experimental test laboratory. It was from another lifetime, a time in his life John wanted to forget. But it looked as though Sherlock’s behavior may have another more benign explanation. Could it be that Sherlock seen John as Victor Trevor’s replacement? “Did Victor’s accident drive Sherlock into take drugs?”

 

“Victor Trevor wasn’t Sherlock’s boyfriend when he died. Victor hadn’t formally asked him out on a date yet. They could have become a couple if Victor had lived. The truth is that he died before their relationship could really get off the ground.” Molly said. They were finally out of London’s busy and chaotic traffic and John could see Molly relaxing as she eased the car onto the mostly quiet motorway. ‘Yes, in a way Victor Trevor’s death was the reason for Sherlock’s foray into drugs. But someone took advantage of him when he was at his weakest point and introduced him to drugs.” While Molly disapproved of Mycroft when it came to how he dealt with his brother, she agreed with him on one point. Although they had no evidence, they were both sure that the late unlamented Andrew Rundle was the one responsible for introducing Sherlock to drugs.

 

“I can see where it would have been a traumatic experience, but I just don’t see Sherlock falling apart like that over an accident.” John sighed confused. 

 

Molly glanced at the man beside her and hoped not for the first time that she was making the right decision trusting this man with Sherlock’s secrets. “Victor did not die in a traffic accident. He was murdered.”

 

\-----

 

**Six years ago**

**Cambridge**

 

_Alphas from the middle classes really only had two choices regarding their careers. They could either become a sycophant to the elite Alphas and hope for admittance to their inner circles, which could guarantee a position from one their companies upon graduation. Or they could choose a more difficult course, throwing their lot with the Betas, believing in getting what they wanted through the path of meritocracy._

 

_Victor Trevor had it better than most middleclass Alpha’s, successful academically, star athlete on the track, good looking, charming and fawned over by several females from the elite class. The elite Alpha’s had opened their doors to the Cambridge golden boy, thus ensuring his future, should he so chose. But to everyone’s surprise Victor had chosen his own path, believing that he could get what he wanted in life through his own merit and not by aligning himself with the elites._

 

_Molly had to give Victor credit for his persistence when it came to his pursuit of what he wanted. The first time he had laid his eyes on Sherlock, he had declared in public that he wanted to date the young prodigy. His very public announcement had created quite the uproar. Many had derided him for daring to even think dating someone from the elite class, even though the person in question was a Beta. Others had wished him luck, shaking their heads in amusement at another Alpha who had lost his head. But bit-by-bit, Victor managed to coax the young prodigy out of his shell by teaching him how to dance. They were frequently seen in each other’s company and it looked like Victor may just have succeeded where all others had failed. It was at this moment when everything collapsed like a house of cards._

 

_There was half-term for one week. Most students, including Victor, had returned home for the break. When classes recommenced Molly had noticed that Sherlock had been visibly disappointed not to see Victor among the returning students. After their last class of the day Sherlock had invited Molly to his room to pick up a biology text, which he thought she might find useful for her course._

 

_The smell of blood was the first thing that hit her nose as they stepped into the small living area of her friend’s rooms. It took her some time before she registered what she was seeing; it looked like a horror scene straight from a bad slasher films. The walls were painted with blood and in the middle of the living room, was Victor Trevor, or to be more precise, what was left of Victor Trevor._

 

\-----------

 

**Present Day**

 

“Victor was alive, if you could call something that was breathing, alive,” Molly said as she recalled the scene that had left such an indelible mark on her. “Victor had been kidnapped on his way home and been tortured for one full week and made into a ‘human swine’.”

 

“A ‘human swine’?” John asked, not sure if he actually he wanted to know what a ‘human swine’ was.

 

“It was an ancient Chinese torture method invented by a jealous wife. Upon her husband’s death, the wife went after her departed husband’s favourite concubine. The limbs of the concubine were amputated, her eyes were gouged out and her tongue was cut off. Acid was then forced down her throat to destroy the voice box and burning copper was poured into the ears rendering the victim deaf before removing the ears and cutting off her nose and then every single hair was plucked from her body. The ‘human swine’ was then thrown into the cesspit with the pigs. Victor was not thrown into a cesspit, but was instead ‘stored’ and ‘displayed’ in a giant wine barrel.” Molly took a deep breath and parked the Land Rover at the side of the road, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

 

John could see that every bit of colour had drained from the young woman’s face and she was breathing heavily. He was worried she was either going to throw up or pass out. He was just about to reach for her when she seemed to come back to herself and take a deep breath and continue her story.

 

“The worst part was that Victor was aware when all these things were done to him,” Molly continued shakily. “The bastards who performed the torture were professionals. With modern medical care, they had ensured that Victor not only survived the torture, but that he would live to a ripe old age. We aren’t sure butI hope that Victor’s soul escaped to a better place long before the torturers made him into a living, breathing slab of meat.”

 

“Is …Victor still alive? But wait…I thought Victor died?” John managed to croak, numbed by the horrifying images painted by Molly.

 

“Good God, Victor died,” Molly said fervently. “Mercifully he died in the hospital three days after he was discovered. Slipped away quietly at night, they said it was a heart attack.”

 

“Who were the perpetuators?” John asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Molly said softly, unclenching her hands from her white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “Mycroft covered up the murder. Victor’s death certificate stated that he died in a car accident. His family received a large insurance payout.”

 

There was a deep silence in the air as they both reflected on the story she had just shared, the story of a young man’s life cut tragically short in such a horrifying manner. “

 

This is how it started for me,” Molly broke the silence. “When I was younger, I wanted to work in a top-end laboratory, specialising in biology. And I did get my dream job after my graduation. However, my heart was never in it, not once I saw how easily Victor’s murder was covered up as a traffic accident. I know it sounds like a cliché but I found my calling in working in the mortuary, giving a voice to those who could not tell others what had happened to them.”

 

“Did Sherlock know who the people were responsible for Victor’s murder?” John asked. The man he knew wouldn’t allow the perpetuators to get away with murder, much less allow his powerful brother, to cover up the case as a traffic accident. The man he knew would have demanded justice for his friend.

 

“I don’t know,” Molly said. “I can never be sure. The killers left a message behind painted in blood with the word ‘DADDY’. Sherlock refused to speak of the case and the rest you know, he started to take drugs and dropped out of Uni.”

 

“But Sherlock said that he died in a car accident,” John said slowly, recalling the way Sherlock had informed him of Victor’s death, as if the man was just some casual acquaintance. There had been no sign on his boyfriend’s face that he was lying or trying to hide anything.

 

Molly was quiet, frowning as if she was thinking what to say next, trying to find the words to phrase her thoughts.

 

“The problem is,” she looked at John and said in a serious tone, “Sherlock truly believes that Victor died in a car accident. He will even describe to you in detail what happened, right down to the weather on the day of the accident. Anyone who listens to him will have no doubt that he is telling the truth.”

 

“What do you mean?” John asked, bewildered by her words. “Are you saying that he has erased his memory, as he is so fond of saying, because he finds the truth too traumatic?” John said, trying to offer a plausible explanation for Sherlock’s actions in hiding the truth behind Victor’s death. He knew instinctively that his explanation was weak. Victor had been someone important to Sherlock. It would be callous of him to ‘erase’ the man from his memory and in doing so, let his murderers go unpunished. A sudden thought struck him. Could Sherlock have erased the events to protect the murderers from the law? Perhaps the murderers were from the elite class, one of the Nobles who actually held the true power in the country. These were the kind of people who wouldn’t have looked kindly upon Victor Trevor‘s attempt to date someone from a totally different social class.

 

“Do you think Sherlock is protecting Victor’s murderers? Perhaps the murderers are from his class, or even his own brother, for whom Sherlock would be forced to compromise his beliefs and keep his silence?” Molly said, as if she could read John’s thoughts.

 

“No,” John said in a louder voice. “Sherlock wouldn’t do that. I trust him. He would’ve blown the whistle on the murderers, even if Mycroft was the murderer. It must be the trauma blocking his memories or a side effect of his drug addiction.”

 

“It is quite convenient, right?” Molly said. “Traumatised by the murder, Sherlock starts a downward spiral taking drugs and then subconsciously deletes the event from his memory. “

 

“But?” John prompted, his mind trying to digest what he had just learnt from her about Sherlock’s past in Cambridge.

 

“Sherlock didn’t forget Victor Trevor’s murder,” Molly said, hugging herself as if she was cold and3 in need of warmth and reassurance. “He knew who murdered Victor, I could tell by his reaction to the message on the wall. Someone has erased Sherlock’s memories and has replaced them with something else. Someone is playing God and has been tampering with his memories since he was eleven.”

 

\------------------------

 

Note:

 

The human swine torture is real.I remembered watching a Chinese show which showed this torture and it haunted me for decades. There are several variations of this torture. The 'original' human swine was thrown into the latrine. The 'storing' of the human swine to 'display' and 'keep alive' in the wine barrel is a 1.1 upgrade of the orignal torture during the Tang dynasty.

 

You can read about the torture at <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Concubine_Qi>

 

 

You can follow the updates/snippets/spoilers at my blog <http://peach-tart.com/>. Yes, I do post the updates earlier in my blog because it takes such a long time to upload it at AO3. I need to manually adjust the formatting at AO3 paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes, I just lose my patience after AO3 kicks me out after the x number of times.

 

You can also follow me at my tumblr account <http://peachtartposts.tumblr.com/>

 

My beta reader [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya)'s tumblr account <http://firelightinferno.tumblr.com/>

 


End file.
